They probably wanted a little light fare to cut the tension before the meeting started." He pointed toward the doorway. "I'd like you to remain in the meeting hall, but at the back of the room. Observe what you can. We'll talk again later."

The bard nodded, then quietly moved from the front of the room. A few of the nobles applauded Thom, and he smiled and bowed in response. As the bard reached the door, Vangerdahast and a very, very old woman entered.

"Time for us to begin," Azoun announced, and the assembled men and women took their places at the long, polished wooden tables. Chairs lined one side of each table instead of the benches often used with them, and the three tables themselves formed a large U. The opening in the tables' arrangement faced the front of the room, where Thom Reaverson had played and Azoun now stood.The room in which the dignitaries gathered was large and had a high ceiling, with brightly colored pennants hanging from the rafters. The king had purposefully chosen the meeting hall, located deep inside the castle, because it had no windows, a single door, and thick walls of stone. If someone thought to assault the assembled leaders, he would have found the task difficult, if not impossible.

Still, though the hall was secure, it was rather drab, apart from the pennants hanging near the ceiling. Barren stone walls, whitewashed like all the walls in the castle, surrounded most of the room. Brightly glowing globes hung at regular intervals around the hall and sat upon each table, but shadows crept into corners and made many a face look far more ominous than it did in daylight. The only unusual ornamentation, a large, colorful cloth- and-thread map of Faerun, covered much of the wall behind the king.

Azoun stood framed by the tapestry, waiting for the assemblage to settle down. After a moment, he inclined his head slightly. Everyone recognized the subtle request for si lence. Vangerdahast and the old woman continued toward the front of the room as Azoun said, "May Torm, God of Duty, help us discover our responsibilities to Faerun, and may the gods of all gathered here aid them in their search for the best path to the truth."

By now the royal magician had reached the front of the room. A servant quickly brought a chair for the old woman, but she waved it away silently. Her tight-skinned, age-spotted face remained impassive and unreadable, even when Azoun smiled at her in greeting. Looking at the woman, the king realized why she so unsettled Vangerdahast. A prominent, knife-thin nose jutted out from between her close-set violet eyes, and it, like the rest of the woman's thin face, was covered with ash-gray skin pulled taut. In all, it seemed to Azoun that he was gazing at an ancient, but well-preserved corpse.

"Go ahead, Vangy," the king said softly as he pulled his eyes from the old woman's steady gaze.

Vangerdahast patted his beard, and his eyes seemed to lose focus under the bushy covering of his eyebrows. He inhaled deeply once, then again.

Closing his eyes, the mage started to mutter a low, rumbling incantation. The few wizards in the room, members of various delegations, leaned to their companions and whispered that the royal magician was casting a spell to detect scrying. If anyone was attempting to magically eavesdrop on the conference, Vangerdahast would be able to ferret out their spell.

At the front of the room, Vangerdahast's chant grew louder, more frantic.

His hands wove a complex pattern in the air. Without warning, he raised his fingertips to his temples, opened his eyes, and uttered the spell's final word. A brilliant blue-white flash burned through the room.

"By Mystra's wound!" Vangerdahast cried. The wizard covered his eyes and fell backward onto the floor.

The skittering sound of swords leaving their sheaths and daggers sliding from boot tops hissed in the room. A few well-trained soldiers, guards for various dignitaries, crouched next to their lords, ready for battle. A mage cast a spell, and a glowing sphere of protection appeared around one of the dalelords.

The few Cormyrian guards in the room rushed to Azoun's side, but the king paid them no attention. "What's going on, Vangy?" he asked as he helped hismentor from the gray stone floor.

The wizard rubbed his eyes with both hands and muttered curses under his breath. "Someone close by had a very powerful spell locked on this room.

That flash was caused by my incantation uncovering the other mage's scrying spell. Their contact with the room has been severed."

Many of the dignitaries relaxed, but few of the bodyguards put their weapons away. A large, middle-aged man slammed the hilt of his broadsword against the tabletop, breaking the room's uneasy silence. "If we could trace that spell," he growled, "we'd find a Zhentish agent to be the spellcaster."

"How do you know that, Lord Mourngrym?" asked a quivering merchant from Sembia.

All eyes turned to the nobleman who had spoken first: Mourngrym, lord of Shadowdale. The dalelord frowned as he slipped his broadsword into its jeweled sheath, but when he saw that he commanded the room's attention, he straightened his thick-muscled frame to its full height and smoothed his immaculate, stylish surcoat. Almost casually he cast an appraising eye over the crowd and drew his mouth into a hard line in the midst of his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The politicians in the room who were allied with the dalelord would later call the look on his face as he spoke benign, even paternalistic. Those who thought less of the nobleman labeled the expression condescending.

"Who else but Zhentil Keep would want to spy on this gathering?"

Mourngrym touched the symbol of Shadowdale-a twisted tower in front of an upturned crescent moon-which lay over his heart on his impeccably tailored surcoat. "We from the Dales know of the Keep's evil better than anyone."

Vangerdahast shook his head and stepped forward. "The mages at the Keep would have used a far more subtle spell than the one I discovered."

"What about the Trappers' Guild, then?" the dalelord returned. "I hear you're having trouble with them about the crusade."

"A few grouchy hunters hardly constitute 'trouble,' " Azoun offered. He bowed slightly to the delegates from the important merchant kingdom of Sembia, "Though we certainly have the highest respect for our trade guilds."

The leader of the Sembian delegation, Overmaster Elduth Yarmmaster, stood. A rather flabby man with a relaxed, almost discourteous air about him, the overmaster was resplendent in rich purple robes that morning. "We have heard of the trade unrest in your land, Your Highness, and it does trouble us.

However, isn't it more likely the Tuigan themselves are spying upon us?" He waved a fat-fingered, gold-ringed hand in lazy circles. "They, above all, would dearly love to learn our plans."

"You obviously know little of the Tuigan."

The voice was low and gravelly, but strong. All heads turned to the front of the room, where the old woman stood. She regarded the assembly coldly, through hooded eyes. After running her fingers along the fold of her plain white wrap, the woman added, "The Tuigan do not value magic as we do, and they care little for what you do here in Cormyr."

Gasps and mutters answered the woman's slight. Vangerdahast and Azoun both stepped to her side and held up their hands in an attempt to calm the crowd.

"Do not quiet them on my account, Azoun of Cormyr," the old woman said flatly, turning her sharp gray features toward the king. "Once they hear thewisdom of my words they will be respectful enough."

The muttering grew angrier, and Azoun silently wished that they had not been blessed with the woman's presence. She may have won Vangerdahast to his side, but she was about to alienate most of his allies. "Please, noble lords and ladies, Fonjara Galth is a representative from Rashemen. Hear what she has to say."

When Azoun identified the woman, the assembly quieted almost instantly.

Though many in Faerun traded with Rashemen, which lay on the easternmost fringes of the "civilized Realms," few westerners were very comfortable in the presence of that country's people. Ballads often referred to Rashemen as the "Land of Berserkers," for many of its inhabitants were savage, relentless fighters. More mysterious still were the country's rulers. A huhrong nominally guided the land from his steel-walled palace in the city of Immilmar. In reality, a powerful, secretive group of witches held the reins of Rashemen's government.

Though the witches rarely traveled outside their country without adopting foolproof disguises, the lords and ladies who stood and sat in shocked silence wondered if Fonjara might indeed be one of Rashemen's real rulers.

The short old woman held her body still, her thin, bony arms folded across her chest. She surveyed the room for a moment, paying particular attention to the wizards who waited, slack-jawed, for her to speak. "I will not pretend or play games with you. I am here on behalf of Huhrong Huzzilthar, lord of Immilmar and commander of our standing army-and the sisterhood who also rule the land."

Gasps and murmurs washed over the room anew at Fonjara's overt reference to the witches. A faint, fleeting half-smile crossed the woman's gray face as she listened to the astonished hum from the nobles. A few of the Cormyrian lords looked to Azoun and Vangerdahast for some kind of confirmation. The king and his advisor remained stone-faced as best they could, though Azoun was finding it difficult to contain his excitement.

"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 fromthe 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 topledge three hundred soldiers and thirty mages to the cause."

The Cormyrian lords and generals gave a short but enthusiastic cheer.

King Azoun bowed his head in acknowledgment. "My thanks, Myrmeen. And what of the rest of my nobles?" He smiled secretly; one could always count on the beautiful lord of Arabel to cut to the heart of such matters.

A gaunt man stood up, ringing his hands nervously. Tiny beads of sweat worked their way down his pale face and into his overly starched white collar.

"Ildool, the king's lord in Marsember, pledges, uh, the same as Myrmeen Lhal."

"What?" Vangerdahast snapped. "Marsember is at least twice, if not three times the size of Arabel." The royal magician looked to the wizard who sat at Ildool's side and asked, "Are you sure you've counted correctly?"

The young wizard frowned in response to Vangerdahast's steady glare, then fluttered through some papers. "Lord Ildool is mistaken," he said after a moment. "These calculations tell me that King Azoun can expect eight hundred men-at-arms, seventy wizards, and-" the mage paused and looked up at Ildool, who rubbed his hands with a bit more speed and nodded, "-and as many ships as we can spare to transport you to the east."

Azoun smiled and moved quickly to Ildool's side. "My thanks. The valor of your subjects reflects well upon you." The gaunt man stopped twisting his hands and bowed to the king.

"It's the least I could do," he concluded and sat down with a flourish.

Vangerdahast rolled his eyes and muttered, "No doubt," under his breath.

The other Cormyrian lords followed the lead set by Myrmeen Lhal and Ildool of Marsember. Before the representatives from Sembia, the Dales, or any of the free cities around the Inner Sea spoke, Azoun had gathered ten thousand warriors and almost three hundred wizards for his crusade. But this was as the king had expected. Azoun knew that his nobles-even Ildool- were generally loyal and that they would raise as many troops as possible. In fact, the nobles owed him a certain number of troops in lieu of their own military service under Cormyrian law. The real question remained the free cities, the Dales, and Sembia.

Sembia declared its intentions first. After the Cormyrians had all pledged their troops and ships to further their king's mission, Overmaster Elduth Yarmmaster heaved his bulk to a standing position and addressed the assembly.

"I will not promise Sembian troops to the crusade."

Chaos erupted in the room. Azoun stood, shocked into silence, at the head of the assembly; this was not what he had expected at all. Sembia was a large country, a very important part of the Heartlands and vital to the effort against the Tuigan. Azoun badly needed the merchant nation's support.

A few Cormyrian nobles, including Myrmeen Lhal, voiced not-so-veiled threats to the Sembian dignitaries sitting near them. The merchants, for their part, either sat silently, ignoring the jibes, or noisily gathered their papers in preparation to leave. Mourngrym and the other dalelords huddled in smug satisfaction, certain that they were not alone in their belief that fighting other peoples' battles was a mistake.

The overmaster rapped his flabby fist on the table. "Sembia will, however, give any ships the crusaders need, as well as money for mercenaries and supplies."That promise only quieted the room slightly, but it was all that the Sembian leader was willing to offer. His country did not have a large standing army, and if Sembian commoners were going to be recruited, Azoun's personality would not be enough to lure them into battle with the Tuigan.

Azoun understood the Sembians' military position. Though he did not relish the idea of fighting alongside mercenaries, the king knew that he had little choice but accept them if he wished to stop Yamun Khahan.

"Your offer is generous," Azoun said as loudly as he could, short of yelling.

"We appreciate it greatly."

The Cormyrian nobles took this as an order for silence and immediately quieted down. The overmaster's offer, while doing little to sway the dalesmen, was generous enough that the representatives from the free cities of Tantras, Hillsfar, and Ravens Bluff all agreed to raise contingents for the crusade.

Azoun was glad for this, not only because the troops raised from Hillsfar and Tantras promised to be well-trained warriors, but because the free cities could provide more wizards for his ranks.

Finally, after the representative from Ravens Bluff returned to her seat, Lord Mourngrym ordered his scribe to pack up their papers. "You've done nothing-other than let an old woman threaten me-that might persuade me to join the fight."

Vangerdahast, who was resting in a straight-backed chair, pointed at the dalelord. "You've chosen to find no reason to join us," the wizard said bitterly.

"If that's your opinion," snapped a red-haired general from Battledale, "then we all might as well leave right now!"

Azoun shot an angry glance at his friend. It was clear that Vangerdahast's approach would only alienate the dalesmen further. "Please, friends," the king began, "how can I convince you of our task's importance?"

"It's not the importance of the crusade that eludes us," Mourngrym told Azoun. "However, Your Highness, you seem unable to see that any troops we send to Thesk will be men who can't stand with us against the Zhentish if they decide to attack."

"And if the Tuigan didn't try to magically spy on us at the start of the meeting," someone noted from the crowd, "then it was certainly the Zhentish."

Mourngrym nodded his approval of the comment. After glancing around for effect, he added, "I don't even see a representative from Zhentil Keep here."

"Of course not," Azoun said calmly. "I did not invite their ambassador. We will hold separate meetings after I know your dispositions."

The soldier from Battledale snorted a laugh. "We can hardly give you our 'disposition' until we know what the Keep intends to do." The steady light from the magical globe on the table cast ominous shadows on the man's face. His flaming red hair only made him look all the more demonic.

A few of the others gathered in the room bristled at the dalesman's impertinence. Mourngrym was known to be a good ruler, protective of his people, so they could excuse the edge in his voice. But this man, a member of the Battledale militia, was intolerable.

Lord Mourngrym recognized this, too, and quickly moved to head off a nasty confrontation. "Thank you for your input, General Elventree." He turned to Azoun, and the hard line of his mouth softened slightly. "If Your Highness can secure the cooperation of the Zhentish, we will consider raising troops for the crusade."Cormyrian nobles smiled at the concession, but the other dalesmen's objections to the offer were apparent on their faces. "However," Mourngrym added, more to his fellow dalelords than to Azoun, "any troops levied from the Dales will be put under commanders from the Dales."