Crusade - James Lowder [149]
As he watched his daughter ride away on one of the few horses the army could spare, Azoun decided that his greatest victories of the crusade would never be recorded in Thom's chronicles. His ancestors might know that Azoun IV once brought peace to Thesk with his victory over the Tuigan, but they would probably never realize he also made peace with his daughter and with himself. After all, such sentimental matters were not the stuff of histories.
Long after Alusair disappeared into the tall grass of the plain, the king could see the falcon spiraling in the sky as it followed her. The bird, which in time appeared as no more than a dark speck, held Azoun's attention until it, too, faded into the horizon. With a contented sigh, the king returned to camp, where the Army of the Alliance awaited his command.
Epilogue
"Sure flights! Razor points!"
John the Fletcher paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Though autumn was swiftly fading into winter, pushing a heavy cart along the Promenade was hot and tiring work. Not as bad as fighting Tuigan, he decided with a smile. He hefted his cart and called out his wares again.
"Sure flights! Razor points! Buy your arrows from John the Fletcher! Only the best from Razor John!"
Like most of the Army of the Alliance, Razor John had returned to Suzail a few months ago. He had been a bit surprised to find his business doing well, but his apprentice had taken readily to the heavy workload. More importantly, new customers were frequenting the shop. Razor John was, after all, a war hero.
Not that he had done anything superlative during the crusade. None of his customers ever actually asked John about the battles themselves, and they really didn't care to hear the truth. John was a war hero because the people of Suzail, in fact the citizens of most of the crusading countries, had decided that Azoun's venture against the barbarians had resulted in a heroic conflict. Bards readily took up their lutes and wove stories about the crusaders, always vastly outnumbered and fighting for their lives. John, like the rest of the Alliance, was part of a popular legend-based partially in truth, of course, but growing more fantastic every day.
A horse-drawn wagon forced its way up the Promenade, and John heaved his cart to the side of the road. "Damned teamsters think they can drive their rigs anywhere," he grumbled as the wagon passed. He shoved his cart forward again, right into a woman carrying a basket of apples.
The elderly lady, a heavy shawl pulled over her stooped shoulders, turned, ready to scold the owner of the cart. She stopped short when she saw the medal Razor John wore over his heart. "Pardon me," she murmured and went on her way.
John shook his head and looked down at the silver disk. The medal had a longbow engraved in it, with the words "Order of the Golden Way" etched around the image. It had been given to each of the archers who'd fought on the crusade, and ones like it-engraved with either pikes or horses-had been cast for each infantryman or cavalryman. The latter was a posthumous honor.
The medals garnered the wearer a great many courtesies in the city. The deference shown John by the elderly woman was only a small sample. The fletcher had found that the silver disk increased his business on the street, got him better service in taverns, even attracted the attention of single ladies. Not that John was all that concerned with such matters; Kiri had survived the crusade, too, and they were planning a wedding for the spring.
Razor John wore the medal because he was proud of the service he'd done Faerun. He'd gone on the crusade believing in Azoun's cause, and the attention the expedition now received only made John feel that much more pride in the Alliance and all it stood for. There was even talk in the inns that King Azoun wanted the bonds between Cormyr, Sembia, and the Dales to become more permanent. Such a union would make any invasion of the Heartlands