Crusade - James Lowder [15]
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."
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