Crusade - James Lowder [70]
They know orcish treachery well."
"Besides," Torg noted as he sprawled in his throne, "we have all the information we need right now. If the troops we're expecting from Zhentil Keep ran into the orcs, they've probably been wiped out. And," he concluded, lifting his sword from the ground next to his throne, "they will attack us very soon. All we need to do is wait."
Both Pryderi and Alusair nodded. Vangerdahast returned to his seat next to Azoun. After a short discussion, it was decided that the Cormyrian king and his wizard should stay in camp, at least until the sun rose. Next, the ironlord sent Pryderi to join the army guarding the perimeter and called in his scribe to take down some messages for the home city, Earthfast.
For the rest of the night, a white-bearded scribe sat hunched over a piece of parchment, making notes in the thick, angular symbols of the dwarven alphabet. Elaborate iron lanterns hung from metal supports throughout the tent, illuminating much of the area, but casting deep shadows into the corners.
Vangerdahast slept, stretched out on one of the stone benches, snoring fitfully. Azoun and Alusair sat close together, and the princess told the king about the terrible, bloody battles she'd fought in defense of the dwarven city.
At the end of the last tale, she pointed to the armor she wore. "The dwarves made this for me after that fight with the goblins. It's made of the finest mithril steel." She laughed softly and added, "Torg now calls me the 'Mithril Princess' when I wear it."
Across the tent, the ironlord stretched and yawned. He walked slowly to the door and glanced outside. The first rays of the morning sun were creeping over the hills to the east, filling the dwarven camp with cold, pale light. Torg moved his head sharply to work an ache out of his neck. "I was sure the damnable orcs would have attacked by now," he said morosely. "Perhaps now that it's light they'll find a little courage."
As if in response to the dwarven king's wishes, a messenger burst into the tent. "Ironlord!" he gasped, dropping to one knee. "The orcs have shown themselves. They're on the eastern side of the camp."
Torg reached for his sword. "Ha! Now they'll pay for that escort party they murdered," he cried, startling Vangerdahast awake. The birds at the dwarven king's side were also shocked out of their slumber. They flitted around their cage noisily.
Alusair, already wearing her cuirass, stood and strapped her brassards onto her arms. "Have they attacked yet?" she asked the dwarven messenger.
"Not yet," he replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. "They are arrayed in battle formation in the field to the east."
Azoun turned to Torg. "Ironlord, it might be best for us to avoid this conflict.
Perhaps the orcs will listen to reason and march on."
"Reason?" Torg snorted. "Orcs listen to reason, you say? No insult intended, Azoun, but you don't know orcs. They're here to fight."
"What about the crusade?" Vangerdahast asked, his voice still raspy with sleep. "The troops that die in this possibly preventable battle are lost to the Alliance of the West. Besides," the wizard added, appealing to the dwarven king's honor, "you gave your word that two thousand dwarves from Earthfast would assist us against the Tuigan."
Torg muttered something vile about wizards into his dark beard, then sighed. "All right. We'll see what your diplomacy can do. It's your funeral, mage. And remember, the first orc to raise a bow or a sword gets a crossbow bolt between its beady little eyes."
Vangerdahast straightened his beard and followed the two kings and the princess from the tent. Torg's entourage was quickly joined by a squadron of elite guards. Like the other dwarven soldiers, the bodyguard said nothing as it marched to the eastern edge of the camp. Vangerdahast kept to himself, too, and reviewed the spells he knew that might