soldier. He'll follow my commands when it comes down to a fight, so his mistaken disregard for the enemy's strength doesn't matter.' When the infantry commander paused at the door, the king added, 'Besides, there are plenty of things I'm counting on you for already. Leave the command of the generals to me; it gives me something to occupy my time.'
A sly smile on his face, Farl bowed and headed into the heart of the camp to oversee the movement of the refugees. Azoun watched the commander go, then called for a squire to help him don the rest of his armor.
Less than an hour later, after a quick visit to the temporary head of the War Wizards, the king was touring the battle lines. He walked a little stiffly in his full suit of plate mail, but with the practiced gait of one accustomed to the heavy burden of armor. Azoun personally favored training in battle conditions, and he'd often spent an hour or two in the height of summer practicing his swordsmanship dressed in his full armor. Seeing the distress in some of his soldiers' faces as the early morning sun beat down upon their heavy mail made the king thankful it was a habit he had maintained. Even though it was relatively cool for a day in mid-Flamerule, any sun hammering on an armored body could be brutal.
Soldiers scurried along the front, fortifying their positions or simply taking their place in line. As the generals had agreed, the bulk of the army was split into two lines, but the map had not shown that they were spread across the slope of a wide, low hill. This positioning afforded the bowmen in the second rank a good view of the field. Azoun glanced behind him at the four groups of archers and prayed their longbows would prove a match for the short, curved bows the barbarians fired from horseback.
Adjusting his coif of mail, the king wiped the sweat from his forehead. The hill itself will help the archers, too, he concluded silently. The field's long slope will almost certainly slow the Tuigan charge enough for the bowmen to whittle their numbers down a little before the first sally.
'Your Highness!' a messenger shouted and dropped to his knees behind the king.
Azoun spun around to see a dirty, panting youth. 'What is it, boy?'
'The barbarians, Your Highness. I seen 'em coming when I was on scout,' the youth reported between gasps. 'I raced here as fast as my horse'd carry me.'
Flipping back a mailed glove, Azoun arched his hand over his eyes and looked to the east. The morning sun was low enough in the sky to be blinding to someone scanning the horizon, and the glare prevented the king from seeing any movement in the distance. Only mile after mile of rolling wild grain, intersected by the dark scar of the trade road, met his anxious eyes. Still, the king didn't doubt the report, and he immediately told the standard-bearer waiting nearby to signal the army to form battle lines.
Azoun patted the scout on the head and sent him to his place at the rear of the army, where he'd be ready as a messenger if the need arose. Trailing the standard-bearer and a few knights behind him, the king walked to the rear of the lines himself. With the help of a wooden ramp, Azoun mounted his fully barded horse. The white destrier pranced nervously, then trotted to the front lines under the king's guidance.
As Azoun watched, a few soldiers scattered caltrops over the field far in front of the Alliance's lines. These spiked metal balls, like the wooden barricades that also littered the field, were meant to slow a cavalry charge. All along the first line, the men tightened the straps on their leather armor or shifted under the weight of their hauberks of chain mail. Spear points and pike blades glinted in the morning sunlight as the weapons sat on the ground near their owners, who also rested in anticipation of the conflict. Wineskins passed surreptitiously from man to man as the waiting began.
The experienced campaigners knew that a period of tense expectation, when the lines were formed but the enemy had yet to charge, would be part of the battle that day. They took the delay in stride. Many listened to the sergeants and captains barking orders or tossing encouragement to the men. Others heard the murmur of hushed, worried conversations, and, closing their eyes, dreamed that they were in a tavern far from this particular battlefield. Whatever they did, the soldiers who had seen a large battle before tried their best not to look for the Tuigan on the horizon.
They knew that the enemy would come soon enough.
In fact, it was only one half-hour after the king had signaled the lines to form that the dust from the Tuigan advance became visible, even against the bright morning sun. The signal to prepare for assault rippled through the standards, and the men got slowly to their feet. Last gulps of wine were swallowed, and prayers were quickly murmured. The more hardened mercenaries placed final bets on the number of men they might kill or how many hours the fight might take. Most of the soldiers simply stood and stared at the dark line growing across the horizon.
'Can you see how they're arrayed?' Azoun asked the armored horseman to his right.
As infantry commander, Farl's position for the start of the battle was near the king, to the rear of the first line. Be squinted at the enemy troops rushing toward them and, after a moment, shook his head. 'I can't tell from this distance.' Farl's horse shifted nervously beneath him, and he steadied it with a pat on the flank. 'If there are as many warriors as you said, their front isn't long enough for them to be riding in less than two, perhaps three lines.'
Fear knotted Azoun's stomach, and he suddenly knew why the men had been so quiet, so tense in the hours before the battle. The king's work had kept his mind occupied with hundreds of details, and his position had called on him to make a myriad of decisions, all of which drew his attention away from the reality of the conflict. As Azoun sat on his destrier, watching the Tuigan advance, he knew with horrible certainty the battle that might end his life was charging toward him at a fast gallop.
Azoun glanced at the helmet in his hands. The basinet was ovoid, with a high point at the summit that tapered to the ornate gold rim of the Cormyrian war crown. 'In a battle against Zhentil Keep this crown might guarantee my safety,' he said vaguely as he slid the helmet over his coif of mail.
'But the khahan has expressed a wish to make my skull into a cup, so I suppose this makes me stand out more than a full purse at a thieves' guild meeting.'
Having been in many battles before, though none nearly as monumental as the one that faced him now, Farl Bloodaxe recognized the fear in the king's voice. That's good, he thought. Fear keeps men alive in war.
He didn't tell that to Azoun. Instead, the infantry commander leaned close and said, 'Thom once told me a story of an ancient Cormyrian king who fought a glorious battle against an enemy who outnumbered him twelve- to-one.'
Frowning, Azoun slid his visor closed. 'I've heard that story, too, Farl. The king and all his knights but one die in the conflict. Hardly a tale to lighten our moods.'
'Our odds are far better, Your Highness,' Farl said, closing the visor on his own helmet. 'We're only outnumbered three-to-one. At least a dozen of us should make it back to Cormyr.' With a flourish he drew his sword and bowed it in salute to the king.
Beneath his helmet, Azoun chuckled. He meant to return a witty retort to his friend's dark humor, but when he glanced at the Tuigan line, it was closer than he had expected. The signal went out again to prepare for first assault. Pikes and spears bristled from the Alliance's first rank, and the tension in the air made the whole army grow as tight as the string on a longbow.
The formation of the Tuigan charge was clear now, but the sun at the enemy's back and the high, waving grain sometimes hid the horsewarriors from Azoun's sight. As Farl had guessed, the khahan had organized his men into three rough lines, each about three men deep. Azoun was amazed that the barbarians managed to maintain a straight, orderly charge as they raced across the plain. If Lord Harcourt can see the precision with which the Tuigan are advancing, the king decided, he's probably modified his opinion of them considerably.
At a few hundred yards, the bulk of the enemy reined in their horses and stopped. A group about half the size of the Army of the Alliance, perhaps fifteen thousand men, raced forward. A steady rumble of drums accompanied the heavy thunder of their horses' hooves pounding the ground.
'They're going to test the line!' Farl shouted, waving his sword in the air. The first line gripped their shields a little tighter and braced their polearms for the impact. In the second rank, captains bellowed orders to the archers, who tested the pull of their bowstrings one last time.
Azoun shifted in the saddle to get a better look at the four groups of archers, then drew his sword. The king could see Brunthar Elventree's standard-the mace, spear, and chain symbol of Battledale in gold upon red cloth-at the rear of the closest formation of bowmen. Like all the groups of archers, the dalesman's was fortified with dozens of long, sharpened stakes. The palisade formed a wall of spikes that tilted down the hill, ready to repulse an enemy charge.
