"Yes, sir," John murmured and quickly pulled an arrow from the ground.

The fletcher sighed as Brunthar moved off, barking orders and pulling other soldiers to attention. When the general was a few yards away, John bent over and picked up his battered black felt hat, which the dalesman's blow had knocked off his head.

"If he not hit you, I would," someone grunted to John's right. The fletcher turned to the speaker, an orcish soldier with one broken tooth jutting up from his yellow-green lips. "Sleep here and you not wake up, arrow-man." The orcish infantryman leaned against the wooden spike planted in the ground next to him and casually poked the earth with his sword.

Before John could reply, Brunthar's voice called out another command.

"Nock arrows!" After walking past John, repeating the command, the general stopped and stood on a wooden block, which would afford him a better view of the battlefield.

Like the king and his other advisors, Brunthar Elventree was certain that Yamun Khahan would not waste time trying to draw the Alliance out of its secure position between the trees. He expected the barbarians to charge with their full army without prelude. But when he stood upon that wooden block and looked out over the field, he was surprised to see a group of only one thousand riders racing ahead of the Tuigan horde, brandishing their bows.

"Gods," Brunthar cried. "They're fools!"

Stunned, the commander of the archers watched the charging riders. When the Tuigan were within seventy-five yards, the king's standard waved the command to fire, which Brunthar relayed immediately.

"Fire," he cried. "Range for seventy-five yards!"

The order was carried down the line, as sergeants called out the range.

The archers leaned back slightly and, despite the fact they were unable to seetheir targets clearly, fired. The swarm of arrows that arced out onto the field was amazingly accurate. The shafts cut down quite a few Tuigan, but the surviving riders raced on toward the western lines.

For an instant, Brunthar thought the riders were going to charge into the illusion that hid the holes the dwarves had dug the night before. Luckily, as the Tuigan got fifty yards from the Alliance's front rank, only forty feet from the nearest hole, they reined in their horses. With a swift, fluid movement, each barbarian drew a single arrow and dipped its tip into a small leather bag dangling at his side. The arrowheads smoldered, then burst into flame.

Again the signal for the western archers to fire was sent, but it was too late.

The Tuigan line sent the burning arrows into the sky. They trailed streams of flame as they passed over the western troops, then disappeared into the trees to either side of the road. The western archers cut down most of the remaining horsewarriors, but that was little consolation. Thin trails of smoke were already working their way out of the forest.

The orc standing next to Razor John struck himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. "That old trick," he growled. "Orcs use fire to drive elves from trees in plenty battles."

The fletcher barely heard a word the Zhentish soldier said. His mind was occupied with the growing coils of smoke that were wafting over the western armies. For an instant John imagined himself driven from the security of the western position by the fire, at the mercy of the Tuigan. As in the nightmares the fletcher had suffered for the past few nights, the barbarians appeared in his mind's eye as grotesque ogres, drooling blood and wearing little other than uncured animal hides and human bones.

Panicked murmuring broke out in the western ranks as the fire spread. To quell the growing fear, Brunthar jumped down from the wooden box and paced before the line. "Stay in formation!" he shouted. "The king will take care of us. You know that."

Silently the dalesman hoped Azoun would think of something fast.

Brunthar didn't have to wait long to find out if the problem was under control. The thick clouds overhead grew dark, and soon they were roiling angrily in the sky. The rumble of thunder echoed over the plain, and a few large drops of rain splattered on the dalesman's armor. He looked up at the clouds just as the downpour started.

Standing next to Razor John, the orc snorted as the pelting rain fell.

"Wizards make storm," he muttered. "Now armor wet and stinky."

A cheer went up in the Alliance's lines as they realized the War Wizards had foiled the barbarians' plan. A low, insistent rumble answered the cry, but some of the men dismissed it as a peal of thunder. Anyone who could see the Tuigan line knew otherwise.

The khahan had ordered his entire army forward. The terrible rumble crossing the field was the sound of their horses pounding the sodden ground.

"Here they come!" Azoun shouted, and the signal went up to prepare for an assault. The king glanced at Vangerdahast.

"Are you ready?"

The wizard smiled wickedly, but Azoun could see a quiver shake his cheek.

The strain of casting the spell to make it rain had obviously worn down the aged Vangerdahast. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said.All eyes turned to the Tuigan charge. The rain was slowing their mounts somewhat, especially those racing through the fields rather than up the Golden Way itself. The downpour had already loosened the topsoil enough that the horses kicked up clods of muddy earth with each step.

At fifty yards, Azoun spotted the khahan's banner. The nine yak-tails that hung from the pole were dripping with water, and the mud churned up by the charge had hidden their color. It was clear nevertheless that Yamun Khahan rode near the standard; it was the tallest and most prominent in the Tuigan line. As ordered, the western archers began to rain arrows down upon the Tuigan. On the right flank, the dwarves let fly a thousand crossbow bolts and quickly reloaded. Sheet after sheet of deadly missiles dropped upon the seventy thousand barbarians as they rushed forward. "Now, Vangy," Azoun said and pointed to the center of the enemy line.

Without hesitation, the wizard drew a pinch of diamond dust from a pouch at his belt. Spreading it in an arc over the ground, Vangerdahast uttered a brief incantation. "There," he said weakly. "The khahan is all yours." He staggered a few steps and added, "I'd best get back with the other War Wiz- ards. I can do no more here."

Azoun couldn't take his eyes off the center of the Tuigan line. The horselords raised their curved swords high and shrieked a frightening war cry.

Even though he knew that at least some of the barbarians would be stopped by the holes dug across the battlefield, the king felt a shiver run up his spine.

If the Tuigan got through, it was clear they intended to take no prisoners.

The war cry trilled over the battlefield for a few seconds more, until with startling suddenness, the Tuigan line hit the traps. At first only a few horses stumbled, but that was all it took to cause havoc in many parts of the charge.

Because of the small front the western army presented, the horsewarriors were forced to ride much closer together than they normally did. Now, when one rider fell or one horse staggered, others quickly followed.

As the full bulk of the Tuigan charge hit the semicircle of holes, it became clear how effective the trap was going to be. Rider after rider urged his mount into the illusory terrain, only to have it drop one leg into a deep hole. The sick- ening sound of bones breaking filled the air before the horses started to shriek in pain and confusion. Soldiers tumbled out of saddles. A few were lucky enough to be tossed clear of the press, but most were not. The former were quickly cut down by the western archers, the latter crushed by falling horses or the troops charging behind them.

To Azoun, it looked as if an invisible wall had been thrown up to stop the enemy charge-a wall with one noticeable gap.

The riders at the center of the Tuigan line, those closest to Yamun Khahan and his standard, found the path to the western army strangely free of barricades. Their horses pounded over the muddy ground while others on either side of them were stopped by unseen forces. The khahan could not know it, but he and his bodyguard had crossed over a plane of force, a magical bridge called into existence by Vangerdahast for the sole purpose of trapping the Tuigan leader. As soon as the yak-tail banner and the fifty or so men around it crossed that magical bridge, the royal magician let it disappear.

When the plane of force was gone, the holes beneath it gaped hungrily for Tuigan horseflesh.

As the riders behind Yamun Khahan fell victim to the dwarves' trap, KingAzoun looked to his right. His daughter stood, fully armored, waiting for the command to attack. The king had been wounded and unconscious when Alusair had joined the first battle. When he'd awoke, Azoun had learned she was safe before he'd found out she'd ever been in danger. Now he realized that his order might send Alusair to her death, that Filfaeril might not get to see her daughter alive again.

For an instant, he considered ordering her to the rear, out of danger. Azoun quickly shook aside that thought. The princess belonged on the battlefield as much as he did. That realization did not erase the fear the king felt for his daughter's life, but it allowed him to raise his own sword and give the signal he'd been waiting all day to give. "At them!" King Azoun cried and raced forward.

The two hundred soldiers who charged with the king had been handpicked.

Along with Torg, Vrakk, and Alusair, there were dalesmen and Sembians, Red Plumes from Hillsfar and Purple Dragons from Cormyr, all the best soldiers in the Alliance. The two hundred shouted angry defiance at the khahan and braced themselves for the fight. "Now," the king whispered into his closed visor. "Do it now, Vangy."

As if in response to the king's plea, fifty lightning bolts joined the rain and the longbow arrows in the sky. They shrieked over the western lines and tore into the helpless, tangled Tuigan. The bolts momentarily blinded those who had looked upon them, and deafened the soldiers to the cries of the barbarians who were scattered by the lightning like sparks from an exploding firecracker. For the first time in many months, a Tuigan charge wavered, then failed.

Inside the semicircle marked by the wall of crippled horses and crushed bodies, King Azoun was ordering his two hundred to encircle the khahan's bodyguard. The trapped Tuigan were obviously looking for a way to escape, but the king was certain he would provide them none.

Azoun tapped his sword upon his shield twice, and the standard-bearer dipped the purple dragon to the ground. The archers, who had until now been aiming at the mass of Tuigan held up by their fallen comrades, pointed their missiles at the group of riders huddled around the khahan. Longbow arrows whistled over the king's head, and half the khahan's bodyguard dropped from their saddles. The surviving Tuigan caught inside the king's trap scattered, and the handpicked western force rushed to dispatch them.

Gripped with foreboding, Azoun watched Alusair rush from his side toward a barbarian rider. The princess, not carrying a shield, gripped her longsword with both hands and slashed at the Tuigan as he rode past. The blow con- nected, dropping the warrior to the muddy ground.

As the king took a step toward his daughter, the unhorsed Tuigan stood up.

A large, hulking man, the barbarian wore a suit of typical Tuigan armor: large metal plates sewn onto leather. His conical, pointed helmet had fallen off when he'd hit the ground, so his braided, mud-spattered hair was all that protected his head. The princess took immediate advantage of that fact.

Before her father could take two steps, Alusair feinted a blow to the barbarian's midsection. When the hulking man moved to block it with his curved sword, she struck at her real target. Her blade hit the Tuigan's un- protected head and split his skull.

With a glance back at her father, Alusair moved into the press of warriors infront of the king.

From the edge of the main battle, Azoun saw a Tuigan whirl his horse around, as if he were ready to charge the western lines alone. Unlike the warrior Alusair had faced, this barbarian wore a breastplate of gold, sculpted with muscles. A skirt of chain girded his waist, and from the top of his conical, fur-trimmed helmet, a horsetail dangled. The sky lit up again as another group of lightning bolts passed overhead. For an instant, Azoun thought that the Tuigan's dark eyes reflected the light with malevolent intensity.

"Yamun Khahan," Azoun said to himself. He took a step forward and tightened his grip on his shield and his sword.

The khahan must have seen Azoun, too, for he kicked his black charger into motion. As his mount bounded over the muddy ground, the ruler of the Tuigan shouted something in his own guttural language. The Cormyrian king didn't know that the khahan was shouting an oath, calling upon his legendary status as the chosen of the Tuigan sky god, but that didn't matter. All Azoun saw was the well-muscled horse with its angry, cursing rider heading toward him. He lifted his shield and bent his knees slightly, preparing to dodge the khahan's attack.

A short soldier in beautifully crafted armor stepped in front of Azoun, holding his sword before him like a lance. The king tried to push past the stocky dwarf, but the ironlord would not be moved. Torg mac Cei wanted the honor of slaying the khahan: the Tuigan leader's skull would be a fine addition to the mounds in Earthfast. Stepping back, Azoun attempted to lure the khahan away from the dwarf. The ironlord had little chance of striking a blow against the mounted barbarian, and it was only his colossal pride that made him try.

As Azoun expected, Torg's stand was indeed futile.

Yamun Khahan raced forward, pointing his horse directly at the ironlord.

When the armored dwarf moved out of the way, Yamun sliced down with his curved sword. Torg's armor was perhaps the finest ever crafted in the halls of Earthfast, but it could not protect him from Yamun's powerful blow. With a screeching sound, the Tuigan blade struck the armor on the ironlord's neck and bit far into his back. Torg was dead before he hit the ground.

"Azoun of Cor-meer!" the khahan shouted as he wheeled his horse around to face the king. The Tuigan jammed his heels into the mount's side and drove it forward.

Azoun had not missed the trick Yamun Khahan had used on Torg, and he assumed the barbarian would use his horse to force him into a poor defensive position, too. The king moved long before the khahan's mount reached him, feinting first to the right, then dodging left. The ploy almost didn't work, and the khahan's sword scraped Azoun's helmet and knocked his shield away.

Gritting his teeth against the pain from his wounded leg, the king decided that he'd best not try to feint again.

Yamun Khahan threw his head back and laughed as his horse drove Torg's corpse deeper into the mud. For an instant, time seemed to slow down for Azoun, and he saw the myriad of individual battles going on around him as if they were occurring in slow motion. A few yards away, Vrakk and Farl were fighting desperately against Tuigan soldiers they had knocked from their horses. Arrows were streaming overhead, interspersed with occasional flashes of fire and beams of magical energy. Alusair, he realized with asudden start, was nowhere in sight.

The king's heart caught in his throat, and he wanted to cry out. In that same instant, however, the khahan's black mount leaped forward, kicking up a shower of muddy water. In four paces it was bearing down on Azoun.

Sidestepping only slightly, the king slapped the horse's front legs with the flat of his blade. The beast skidded to a stop, then lost its footing in the mud and toppled. As the horse fell, Yamun rolled from the saddle. The khahan wanted to stay clear of his mount, the only thing that would give him a chance to fight on. As he soon learned, the battleground was fast becoming a mire; with a curse, the self-styled Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples slid onto his back in the mud.

Azoun stepped forward and brought his sword up to attack. It seemed for an instant that the khahan was helpless. Weighted down by his heavy breastplate, he writhed in the mud like a turtle flipped onto its back. But when Azoun got close enough to strike, Yamun lashed out with his steel-shod boots and kicked the king in the knee.

Normally the blow would have had little effect. Azoun's armor protected him from any obvious damage from the at tack, and the khahan had even struck against the king's uninjured right leg. The mud beneath Azoun's feet was just a slick as that beneath the khahan, though, and once his balance was upset, Azoun found his wounded leg of little use in keeping him on his feet. The Cormyrian king toppled into the mire at the khahan's side.

With a monstrous cry, the Tuigan leader grabbed his enemy's arm and brought a mailed fist down on his helmet. The blow knocked the visor from the king's basinet. Now, with the sight limitations brought by his visor gone, Azoun looked upon the khahan. His vision was slightly blurred from the blow, but the king saw that the barbarian crouched next to him, his lips curled into a savage snarl, his wet, red-tinged braids dangled wildly from under his pointed golden helm. Yamun was reaching for his curved sword, which lay in the mud a few feet away.

Azoun called upon all his years of training, all his years of adventuring, as he tried to heave his armored form out of the mud. The best he could do was roll onto his side, but that was enough. As the khahan retrieved his sword and turned, Azoun grabbed his own blade and struck. The blow severed the hand in which the barbarian held his curved weapon. With a howl of pain, the Tuigan emperor toppled forward.

Most of what followed was a blur to the king. In the days that followed, he would only vaguely remember struggling to his feet and raising his sword high over the injured Tuigan. The one clear memory that clung to Azoun for the rest of his life was of Yamun Khahan meeting his gaze just before the blade struck. The barbarian showed no fear as the steel drove deep into his chest, cleaving his heart in two.

The rest of Yamun's bodyguards were dispatched quickly, and to the westerners' astonishment, some of the Tuigan caught in the trap surrendered when they saw that their khahan was dead. Alusair returned to the king's side, the enemy's standard in her hand. A mixture of relief and immense pride gripped Azoun as he watched his daughter break the standard over her knee, then toss the shattered staff and the sodden yak tails onto Yamun's corpse.

By the time the rain stopped, a little less than two hours after it had begun, the barbarians of the Tuigan horde had either retreated or surrendered.

17

Pages in History

In the tense hours that followed the battle, scouts chased after the retreating Tuigan horde and watched for signs that they were regrouping for another attack. For Azoun, the waiting that afternoon was more terrible than the short lull before the two previous battles, when the enemy had been sighted but had yet to reach the western lines. However, as the day wore on, it became clear that the surviving fifty thousand Tuigan were not going to make another charge.

The Army of the Alliance, now only ten thousand strong, had won the day.

"I've got the latest reports," Alusair announced as she entered the makeshift command center to the rear of the forti fied western lines. The princess, who had removed most of her armor, wore a sweat-soaked, padded doublet and grimy hose. Her short blond hair was plastered to her forehead, and her shoulders were slumped with exhaustion.

To King Azoun his daughter looked lovely. Though his left leg was still sore-the battle with the khahan had reopened the arrow wound, and the clerics had only recently stanched the bleeding-the king stood when Alusair entered the ring of camp chairs. These were the main component of the command post. The other, a sturdy wooden table covered with maps, was currently surrounded by the surviving western leaders: Farl Bloodaxe, Brunthar Elventree, Vangerdahast, and Vrakk.

"Where do we stand?" Azoun asked as he hobbled to Alusair's side.

"The scouts report that the Tuigan are scattering," she said. By now, the generals had turned their attention to the princess. She nodded a greeting. "I used the magical bracelet and the falcon to track the main force of barbarians myself. They're miles from here, heading east."

The king sighed with relief. "Is the horde still breaking up?"

"It seems so," Alusair replied. "Small groups of barbarians sheer off from the main group every so often. A few of these groups are probably scouting parties, but not all of them. Sometimes these small bands are chased off by force."

Vangerdahast shuffled to the king's side. "Inter-clan warfare is starting already." He nodded sagely. "Without the khahan to hold them together, the various factions are preying upon each other, vying for control of the army."

"You've become quite an expert on the Tuigan," Farl Bloodaxe noted.

"I've been talking to Thom," the wizard replied. "He's done a bit of research on the Tuigan. In fact, he's down with the prisoners now, gathering notes for his history of the crusade."

The mentioned of the prisoners visibly darkened the mood of the gathered generals. Brunthar and Vrakk glanced behind the command center, to the area where the seven hundred Tuigan prisoners were being kept. Dwarven troops ringed the area, and clerics moved in and out frequently, tending to the wounded barbarians. The troops from Earthfast had been assigned to guard duty after they'd built a cairn for their fallen leader, partly because the king trusted them to follow his orders and partly because there was some disagreement among the human troops about what should be done with the Tuigan who had surrendered.

"You are going to have to decide what to do with the prisoners soon, Your Highness," Farl said. "It looks as if the barbarians won't attack, at least not inthe next few days. Still. . . ."

The black general let his words trail off, but Brunthar Elventree picked up on the thought immediately. "What if the Tuigan do attack again? What if they're only biding their time?"

Frowning deeply, Alusair shook her head. "That's not the question, General Elventree. It seems clear that we've broken the barbarian army." She looked out over the collection of prisoners. "But we still need to decide their fate."

Farl sighed. "Many of the Tuigan caught in the trap gave up, but they weren't seriously wounded. They know the khahan is dead, so they have no reason to fight."

"Kill them," Vrakk growled, drawing his sword. "No prisoners."

Without pause, Brunthar added his support to that idea. The dalesman leaned toward the king. "I'll take a group of archers out to dispatch the scum,"

he murmured. "They're just using up our supplies now."

Azoun hobbled to his chair and sank into it. He steepled his fingers and bowed his head in thought. "What do the rest of you think?" he asked after a moment.

"We cannot kill prisoners who ask for mercy," Farl replied. "We would hope the Tuigan might offer the same mercy to any westerners they captured."

"They attacked us," Brunthar interrupted, as if his point were relevant.

"Besides, we are talking about barbarians, not westerners. These are the people who killed an envoy because he wouldn't drink sour milk. These are the warriors we came to Thesk to stop."

After shuffling a few paces in the mud and stroking his beard, Vangerdahast turned to the king. "If we keep these men as prisoners, we'll have to set up a camp for them behind our lines." The wizard paused and looked at the western fortifications. "Do you think our troops will want to share their supplies with men who, only this morning, were intent on killing us all?"