Crusade - James Lowder [96]
As Azoun reached the outskirts of the main camp, Vrakk rushed in front of the procession. The leader of the orcs was followed by a dozen or so pigsnouted Zhentish troopers. "We go with you, Ak-soon," Vrakk called, pounding a hand on his muscular, black-armored chest.
Vangerdahast opened his mouth to speak, but Azoun cut him off.
"Thank you for your offer, Commander Vrakk," the king said, loud enough for the humans who were gathering nearby to hear. He paused for an uncomfortable instant, looking for a reason to politely reject the orc's offer.
"But I need you to stand guard here, in case the horsewarriors plan a sneak attack while I'm away."
Vrakk closed one eye and squinted up at the king. "OK, Ak-soon. We wait here." He stepped aside for the procession, which quickly went on its way.
The king nodded to the orcish leader as he passed.
Azoun admired the orcs' bravery, for few men had seemed happy to accompany him on this most dangerous journey. However, the king was adept enough as a statesman to realize the unpolished orcs might open a conflict in the Tuigan camp merely by being there. If Yamun and his men were anything like Torg-or even Azoun's own troops-Vrakk would start a battle simply by being orcish.
Once the procession left the main area of the camp, which ended with the orcs' circle of tents, they passed into the squalid grounds held by the refugees and lowlifes who had attached themselves to the army. Any large collection of soldiers attracted a certain number of prostitutes, black marketeers, and con men. Armies also drew a small contingent of camp followers-unemployed men looking to earn a few coppers in the service of a knight or young boys hoping to sneak into the ranks and find adventure. While the collection of people swarming around the army contained many of these types, it was largely made up of frightened, displaced farmers and merchants.
The sight of the men, women, and children huddled inside makeshift tents or sprawled in the open, exposed to the elements, brought a pall over Azoun's soul. He had ordered his officers to begin a charity for the poor, homeless wretches, but it was clear from the multitude the procession passed that any meager collection from the soldiers could do little to help. Even the defeat of the Tuigan horde would do nothing to bring back these people's homes and loved ones.
"It's a sad sight," someone said to Azoun.
The king turned sharply and saw Thom Reaverson at his side. The sadness on the bard's face mirrored the sick feeling in Azoun's heart. "I came out here two nights ago to tell the refugees a few stories. Just to take their minds off everything. They are glad you're here, milord. You're a hero to them."
That comment gave the king no comfort. He saw the pain and suffering around him now, and it hurt him to know that he could do little for the refugees. "The war won't help these people," he said softly, glancing from dirty face to dirty face in the crowd.
Thom nodded in agreement. "No, probably not. But if you didn't lead us here, there'd be a lot more like them come fall, after the Tuigan had stormed over the rest of Thesk."
When Azoun didn't answer, Thom reined his horse and let the king pace ahead. It was obvious that he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Azoun did mull over the sights in the refugee camp, thinking about how little it mattered to him that these people were not his subjects. Then he pictured similar scenes in Cormyr, in Suzail itself, with the last of his army holed up in the castle while the city's inhabitants cowered in the courtyard, begging for protection.
The king's heart flared with anger, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be face-to-face,