Heart's Counsel

"I left Cormyr, left a soft job guarding caravans, for this," the mercenary cursed. He wiped the sweat from his brow with one blistered hand and held the small ax in the other. When no one responded, he swore under his breath and went back to work.

With a grunt, the tired, hungry man resumed chopping a point onto the end of a long wooden pole. Hundreds of other soldiers crowded around him, sharpening other poles to be used in the defensive palisades. Exhaustion showed plainly on all their faces, and few men spoke. The occasional conversations that sputtered to life in the ranks died quickly, as if fatigue had swallowed the soldiers' words as well as their strength.

Like the blistered mercenary and the others in the work detail, Razor John had slept little in the last day and a half. He, along with what remained of the Army of the Alliance, had left the site of the last battle shortly after midnight.

They'd struggled west down the Golden Way all night, stopping only briefly for morningfeast. A constant fear that the Tuigan would suddenly sweep down on the retreating army from the east had hung over the troops all night and all day. Now, an hour or two before sunset, the western soldiers still wondered where Yamun Khahan and his army of barbarians were.

"They're just toying with us now," the mercenary muttered.

"Perhaps they'll stay away for a while. Perhaps we hurt the Tuigan worse then we think, Yugar," Razor John offered hopefully. He paused to take off his shapeless black felt hat and scratch his sweaty scalp. The fletcher's sandy hair, once almost long enough to cover his ears, was now cropped short for easy care. This, coupled with the bags beneath John's eyes and the tired stoop in his gait, made him seem haggard and more than a little mournful.

The mercenary snorted a laugh. "They grow 'em stupid in your family, don't they, fletcher? We're outnumbered six- or seven-to-one. The damned barbarians are probably sitting a few miles east of here, laughing at us."

Turning his red-rimmed eyes on the mercenary, Razor John bit back a retort. He'd made the comment about the Tuigan more as a way to lighten the youth's foul mood; he was certainly wise enough to know that their situation was indeed desperate. But Yugar, a young, inexperienced Cormyrian mercenary, seemed intent on finding fault with everything.

With an exaggerated swing of his lanky arm, Yugar tossed down his ax.

"And I was fooled into thinking there was money in this idiotic crusade." He slapped his forehead with a grimy palm. "Worse, I believed Azoun's babble about our responsibility to the rest of Faerun."

There had been times in the last two days when Razor John had questioned his own wisdom for venturing so far from home to fight an unknown enemy. And nothing had challenged his resolve more than the death of some of his friends in the first battle. He could still see their mangled corpses staring up at him as if shocked by their own deaths. Luckily, Kiri Trollslayer had escaped harm, but several soldiers John had befriended had perished the day before. But even those deaths had not convinced him that Azoun's crusade had been foolish.

"Why don't you just slink away?" the fletcher hissed as he slammed his ax into the wooden pole. "The army will be better off without you, coward."

Yugar laughed again, this time loud enough to turn a few heads. TheCormyrian mercenary ignored the blank stares of his comrades and picked up the claymore at his feet. "They call me Yugar the Brave back in the Stonelands," the boy boasted. He spun his sword a little awkwardly and lowered the point at Razor John. "And you'd best apologize or you won't live to see the Tuigan again."

Something inside the fletcher snapped. Without thinking, John slapped the mercenary's blade away and landed a fist against the boy's jaw. Yugar tumbled backward over the pole he'd been working on; As the mercenary's claymore spun through the air, the fletcher rushed forward and planted a heavy-booted foot on his thin chest.

"Braggarts like you make a mockery of everything we've given up-no, everything I've given up for this crusade," John said, pressing his steel-shod boot down over Yugar's heart.

"Let me up!" the mercenary bellowed in impotent rage. He cursed and clumsily swung his arms, trying to get a grip on John's leg.

With lightning quickness, the fletcher pulled the dagger from his belt and brandished it over the prone soldier. "I'm here because I believe in Azoun's cause, sell-sword, not for the silver I'll earn for killing Tuigan." He lowered the blade menacingly. "Don't mock the crusade or the king again. I won't stand for it."

As soon as the fletcher raised his foot, Yugar rolled toward his sword. He glanced back at Razor John, then slowly stood and picked up his weapon. For an instant, the fletcher wondered if the boy was going to attack. An angry shout settled the question.

"I'll have you both standing unarmed and naked before the next Tuigan charge if you don't get back to work!" Brunthar Elventree shouted.

Razor John sheathed his dagger and pulled his ax from the pole. The fiery dalesman who commanded the Alliance's archers moved to the fletcher's side.

"Is there a problem here, soldier?" Brunthar growled, gesturing at Yugar.

"Have you mistaken him for a barbarian?"

Razor John looked up at the general. A broad, bloodstained bandage covered much of the dalesman's bright red hair, and a large lump of cotton wadding lay over his right ear. John knew that General Elventree had lost part of that ear to a Tuigan sword in the first battle. "No, sir," the fletcher replied.

Narrowing his eyes, Brunthar studied John for a moment, just long enough to make the fletcher uncomfortable. "I won't have any more fights between you, then," he said at last. He flicked his eyes to Yugar, and when he saw the mercenary was still scowling, Brunthar pointed to another cluster of workmen.

"Get moving. I want you preparing spikes with those men."

Yugar muttered a curse, but turned away quickly and headed toward the other workmen. Brunthar had heard the remark, though. He was considering how to make the young mercenary regret the stupid comment when a com- motion broke out behind him. When he spun around, he expected to see another brawl; the presence of both King Azoun and his daughter certainly surprised the commander of the Alliance's archers.

The king was dressed in a tunic of royal purple, with hose to match. He limped heavily upon his wounded left leg and used a walking stick of plain, dark wood for support. Except for the walking stick-and the Cormyrian battle crown that rested upon his wrinkled brow-Azoun looked like many of thesoldiers who prepared for the battle. In her chain mail hauberk and silken surcoat of purple, Alusair was clothed the same as any member of the king's guard.

"Your Highness," Brunthar said, bowing formally. "I hope you are feeling well this afternoon."

Azoun nodded and lifted his walking stick in a casual salute. The dalesman's formal greeting was a great sign of deference, the king realized, so he did not let the opportunity to return the favor pass. "Our healers seem to be able to call upon their gods for miracles," he replied. After a cursory glance at the fortifications the archers were preparing under Brunthar's guidance, the king added, "Very impressive work, General Elventree."

"Thank you, Your Highness," the dalesman replied. "Everything is as you and the princess requested."

"But better than we had hoped to build in so short a time," Alusair offered, following her father's lead. "Let's hope the rest of the Alliance will be as prepared for the battle as your men."

After bowing again, Brunthar looked toward the sun. "The meeting is at sunset?" he asked.

"Indeed." The king motioned with his walking stick toward the stretch of the Golden Way that snaked out from the western lines. "Out in front of the first rank. We'll see you there."

Azoun and Alusair set off on their tour of the lines again, leaving Brunthar and the archers to their work. For the last hour, the king had been walking through the camp, his daughter at his side. The review was mostly for show, to let the troops know that he was healthy and in command of the Alliance again. It was a painful exercise in rumor-quashing, however, and the king often found his leg wound throbbing angrily at the exertion.

"General Elventree has certainly changed in the last month," Azoun noted.

He grimaced slightly as he made his way over a small ditch. "When he first took command of the archers he had no regard for my position at all."

"Is that why you were so careful to compliment him?" the princess asked.

Azoun nodded, then gave a short bow in response to the greetings of a group of archers. "Partially. Brunthar has proven himself a good commander.

The dalelords were correct in sending him." He paused and marveled at how much he had opposed the idea of a dalesmen commanding the archers.

"What are the other reasons?"

"Just a moment, Allie," the king said when he spotted a messenger running toward them. After receiving word about the most recent scouting forays, Azoun said, "If we seem to be calm, seem to handle the preparations for battle with some confidence, the troops will take strength from our example. If I praise Brunthar, his men will know they are doing what we expect-"

"So they'll hope they are prepared for the next assault," the princess concluded. She frowned slightly and swatted a mosquito. "I thought so. I mean, that's why I said what I did to General Elventree."

Noting the look of concern on his daughter's face, the king asked, "Does that bother you?"

Alusair considered how to form her concern, how to put it into words.

Finally, she adopted the most direct approach; though rather blunt, it seemed the most accurate. "It seems like we're lying."

The reply didn't surprise Azoun. In fact, ever since he had allowed therumors about the Tuigan and his "escape" from their camp to circulate, he'd been troubled by that same thought. After all, those rumors had been partly to blame for the disastrous cavalry charge in the last Tuigan encounter. Azoun had come to no conclusions, however, so he simply didn't know how to respond to Alusair's comment.

Father and daughter remained silent for a time. Alusair knew the king well enough to realize that he was wrestling with the problem, not ignoring it.

They'd spent many hours in Azoun's study in Cormyr embroiled in similar debates, and the pattern was always the same: in the course of a discussion, Alusair would pose a particularly challenging question. Rather than toss off a quick reply or dismiss the problem, the king would consider the issue, pacing back and forth, occasionally glancing at a book or two.

The scenery around Alusair and Azoun now had little in common with that study. As they walked, they passed the groups of archers preparing palisades. Many of the soldiers were finished chopping points onto the poles, and some were even setting the eight- to ten-foot-long spikes into the ground.

Alusair had never been in a cavalry charge that had been forced to face that kind of defense, but she was certain that it must be terrifying to break against a line, only to find huge sharpened stakes braced in the ground, leveled at you or your mount. She shivered and dismissed the grisly thought.

After a time, in which Azoun distractedly returned the bows and greetings of his troops, the king and his daughter looked away from the line of palisades and moved back toward the Golden Way. The sun was beginning to sink in the west, and a few of the Alliance's commanders had already gathered in the road for their meeting.

"I don't lie when I encourage the troops, for I believe that they-that we can actually win," the king replied at last. He stopped and looked back at the soldiers toiling away, some setting spikes, others placing small barricades before the first rank. "I have my doubts, but it isn't my place to share those with the soldiers. They need a leader, not a doomsayer."

Alusair paused for a moment. "Farl told me about Lord Harcourt," she began. The pain that registered on the king's face at the mention of the cavalry charge made the princess regret bringing up the subject. "This isn't the time-" she added quickly.

"If not now, when?" the king replied, a bit too sharply. He spun around as swiftly as his wounded leg would allow and headed toward the meeting. "I don't know what to say about Harcourt and the nobles," he admitted as he trudged along.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have let the rumors about the Tuigan circulate,"

Alusair offered bluntly.

Alusair wasn't saying anything that Azoun's conscience hadn't suggested to him over and over already. When he told his daughter this, she nodded. Then it was her turn to be silent. For a moment, it seemed that the conversation would end there.

When he stepped onto the road, however, Azoun put his hand on his daughter's arm. "When you were in command of the army last night, how did you make your decisions?" he asked.

"I did what I thought was right."

Azoun nodded. The reply was exactly what he'd expected. "That was how I decided to let the rumors about my deeds in the Tuigan camp circulate. Fromthe counsel I received, I concluded that the army would be far better off if I didn't dash their enthusiasm."

"Then you didn't take the most important counselor into consideration," the princess said. She pointed at the king's chest. "You didn't listen to your heart.

You didn't do what your conscience told you was the right thing to do."

Azoun could feel the tension growing between him and Alusair. He took a deep breath and tried to respond as calmly as possible. "There are thousands of lives depending upon my decisions, Allie. You can't know-"

"Oh, but I can," she replied. "Before I knew you were well enough to take command again, I believed I would have to lead the army in the next battle. I felt the pressure."

Farl Bloodaxe bowed as he came close. Unlike many of the soldiers, the ebony-skinned commander had taken off his armor. He again wore the dark breeches and billowing white shirt that made him look more like a pirate than a general. "Excuse me, Your Highness, Princess, but the others have gathered as you requested. We await only your presence."

Azoun was almost relieved at the interruption. He and Alusair had closed the gap that had separated them for so long, but it was clear that many things still held them apart. "Thank you, Farl," the king said. "We'll be along in a moment."

As the general turned to go, the king remembered Farl's words the night before the first battle: The soldiers are here because of your beliefs, and the true crusaders will gladly die for the causes you champion... but never for a lie. Turning to his daughter, Azoun took her hand in his own. "Perhaps you're right, Allie," he sighed, squeezing her hand. "At the very least, you've given me something to think about."

They embraced briefly, which assured both of them that their argument had done little to set back their reconciliation, and went together to the meeting.

Azoun and Alusair found the three surviving generals-Farl, Brunthar, and, much to their surprise, Vangerdahast-as well as Torg and Vrakk, in animated discussion. The commanders sat on camp stools around a low- burning fire. Azoun greeted the royal wizard warmly, and more than anything, seeing his old friend again lightened his mood.

But Azoun quickly found that Vangerdahast had not fully recovered from the sickness that struck him down in the magic-dead area. The firelight revealed the mage's features, pushing away the shadows of the growing twilight, and the king saw that Vangerdahast was quite pale. A palsy shook the mage's left hand, too, but he tried to keep the quivering limb hidden in the sleeve of his long brown robe. When he noticed the king's concerned stare, Vangerdahast frowned.

"I was just telling the other generals," the wizard said crankily, "the magic- dead area seems to have erased the effects of the spells and potions I'd experimented with, the ones that kept me healthier than my eighty-odd years."

His frown deepened into a scowl, and he pointed at the king with an age- spotted hand. "But that doesn't mean I'm unable to command the War Wizards."

"You're absolutely correct, Vangy," Azoun replied with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. While he didn't doubt that the royal wizard could easily keep the Alliance's mages in line, the revelation of Vangerdahast's present malady shocked him."We're wasting time, Your Highness," Torg grumbled. The dwarf looked as petulant as ever. Azoun guessed correctly that the mere presence of the orcs'

commander was enough to upset the ironlord. The dwarf's position in the circle, on the opposite side of the fire from Vrakk, certainly reinforced that guess.

Torg's bigotry is the least of our worries now, the king concluded. Still, he smiled and nodded. "You are correct, Ironlord. The Tuigan won't dally so we can swap stories of the wounds we've gained in the fight so far."

Without ceremony, the king took a seat between Vangerdahast and the spot reserved for Alusair. Turning to Farl, he asked, "Have your scouts spotted any movement in the khahan's ranks yet?"

With a shrug, the infantry commander said, "No, Your Highness. They're still camped close to where the last battle took place, about twelve miles east of here."

"Nor have I spotted anything with the falcon," the princess added. "They seem to be waiting for us to commit to another battle."

"I don't understand it," Brunthar Elventree said. "Why didn't they run us down after the battle? They let us escape!"

Azoun drummed his fingers on his right leg. "Perhaps we surprised them,"

he offered. "The general we captured told Alusair that we'd given Yamun Khahan the strongest resistance of anyone in the west."

"But you lost almost half your troops," Torg reminded the king. He picked up a wineskin that lay at his feet and took a swig.

Vrakk growled deep in his throat and leaned forward. The firelight revealed the true ugliness of his face-the short snout, beady black eyes, and bristling, course hair. His black leather armor, now slashed open in three places, did much to heighten that sinister appearance. "We send many Tuigan to Lord Cyric," the orcish commander rumbled, invoking the name of the Lord of the Dead.

"Vrakk's right," Alusair noted, a slight hint of scorn for the orc hidden in her voice. "By Farl's count we killed thirty thousand barbarians. That's three for every man we lost."

"Leaving Yamun Khahan with seventy thousand horsemen to our army of fifteen thousand," Azoun concluded. He rubbed his wounded leg reflexively and paused. "We cannot survive another battle like that."

"And the khahan won't be foolish enough to go around us and avoid a fight.

That would leave an army to his rear," Farl added.

Vangerdahast, who had been watching the fire, mulling over some point, finally looked up. "Yamun Khahan will certainly attack us tomorrow," he said without preamble. "Perhaps we surprised him, perhaps not. In the end, it really doesn't matter why he's let us live this long. He'll make sure we have no way to retreat back to Cormyr."

After a moment Azoun concluded, "Then we can assume the Tuigan will come soon. Perhaps even tomorrow. That means this night holds the only hours we have left to prepare."

A little stiffly, the king stood and pointed to the western lines. "I want each of you to tell me what you'd do if you were Yamun Khahan, approaching our position."

All eyes were turned to the Alliance's lines. Though the sun was almost set behind the western army, the generals all knew the position by heart. Theyhad stumbled upon the spot in their retreat up the Golden Way. Tall, sturdy trees spread in a long line from either side of the road. Without fast cavalry to cover the army's flanks, the trees insured that the Tuigan could not surround the western troops as they had in the last battle. Better still, the timber would force the Tuigan to attack across a narrow front, limiting the usefulness of their vastly superior numbers.

Torg only regarded the scene for an instant before he spoke. "They'll charge," he said, as if the matter required no more thought. "They have us outnumbered, so why waste time?"

Brunthar shook his bandaged head. "What about their archers?" he asked.

"In all the other engagements, they've tried to break the lines using bowmen."

"True," Alusair said, "but in the last battle, General Elventree, your men proved that our longbows have better range than their shorter bows."

Clearing his throat, Vangerdahast added, "And the mages showed how useful a few fireballs could be in dealing with barbarians." He waved his hand to dismiss the notion. "I agree with Torg. They'll simply charge us and get it over with."

Azoun nodded. "Farl?"

"Yes. They'll charge," the infantry commander said. The wind tugged fitfully at Farl's white shirt as he paused. "They've no magic to rout us from the trees, and it'll take them forever to ride around the woods and attack us from behind."