you hadn't taken command.'
Alusair appreciated Farl's compliment, but the notion that she was one of the only things holding the Alliance together frightened her. She realized then that it was this responsibility that weighed so heavily upon her. Running a hand through her knotted blond hair, Alusair wondered if this pressure was what her father felt every day.
To take her mind off that and other thoughts, she established a makeshift command headquarters in the midst of the western lines. Despite this effort, the princess found that, once she'd set the army to its various tasks, there was little for her to do but wait and think and watch the bright bonfires that had sprung up around the battlefield. Those fires, which might have been the center for a rustic celebration in Cormyr, were the resting place for the western dead. One by one, corpses were hefted onto the blazing pyres, their souls sent to the afterlife unceremoniously on clouds of foul-smelling smoke.
The funeral pyres brought more unwelcome contemplation, and she was attempting to force her mind away from various morbid topics when she heard a spent arrow snap beneath someone's foot. Glancing behind her, the princess saw Thom Reaverson, a smile on his young face. At the bard's side was another man, dressed in a heavy black robe, its hood concealing his face.
'Hello, Allie,' the hooded man said.
Alusair sprang to her feet and threw her arms around her father. When the king groaned, the princess backed up a step. From where she stood, Alusair could see Azoun's pale face and haggard expression. She also noted for the first time that he leaned heavily to his left upon a walking stick.
Before his daughter could say a word, the king held up his right hand. 'Thom told me you were here, so I came to see you.' He shifted his weight on his leg, trying to get comfortable. 'I just wanted to tell you I'm all right, and I wanted to see how you fared in the battle. I was. . worried.'
The king didn't need to explain the disguise. After seeing how ill her father looked, Alusair could guess the reason for it. 'You don't want the men to see you when you're so weak,' she said quietly.
Azoun nodded. 'In the morning, after I've rested, I'll return from the dead, their triumphant hero.' Alusair could not miss the note of self-scorn in those words. She wanted to comfort her father, but he'd already placed his hand on Thom's shoulder and turned to go.
'Wait!' the princess gasped, running a few steps to get beside Azoun. 'What are we supposed to do until morning?'
The king cocked his head, and Alusair thought she saw a little color flush back into his face. 'Thom told me that you've taken command until I get better,' he said, pride bolstering his weak voice. 'And from what I hear you're doing everything I would.' He hobbled a step, then stopped and added, 'I'd move the troops tonight, though. We'll have a better chance of putting some distance between us and the Tuigan under cover of darkness.' Thom cast a sympathetic glance at the princess, then the king and the bard moved on.
For a moment Alusair considered telling her father she didn't want the responsibility for the army, that he or anyone else should take it. But as her father limped back toward the western camp, his face hidden in the hood, the princess realized that he already knew that. Alusair realized, too, that she would take command of the Army of the Alliance, not because she had some vague duty to honor or pride, but because Azoun needed her help.
The weight she felt upon her shoulders that night wasn't lessened by her acceptance. In fact, she felt the responsibility all the more because she knew what it was and knew that the burden could not be lightened. But Alusair was reconciled with that, and she went about organizing the retreat of the army, knowing that her father depended upon her. She was certain she would not fail him.
15
'I left Cormyr, left a soft job guarding caravans, for this,' the mercenary cursed. He wiped the sweat from his brow with one blistered hand and held the small ax in the other. When no one responded, he swore under his breath and went back to work.
With a grunt, the tired, hungry man resumed chopping a point onto the end of a long wooden pole. Hundreds of other soldiers crowded around him, sharpening other poles to be used in the defensive palisades. Exhaustion showed plainly on all their faces, and few men spoke. The occasional conversations that sputtered to life in the ranks died quickly, as if fatigue had swallowed the soldiers' words as well as their strength.
Like the blistered mercenary and the others in the work detail, Razor John had slept little in the last day and a half. He, along with what remained of the Army of the Alliance, had left the site of the last battle shortly after midnight. They'd struggled west down the Golden Way all night, stopping only briefly for morningfeast. A constant fear that the Tuigan would suddenly sweep down on the retreating army from the east had hung over the troops all night and all day. Now, an hour or two before sunset, the western soldiers still wondered where Yamun Khahan and his army of barbarians were.
'They're just toying with us now,' the mercenary muttered.
'Perhaps they'll stay away for a while. Perhaps we hurt the Tuigan worse then we think, Yugar,' Razor John offered hopefully. He paused to take off his shapeless black felt hat and scratch his sweaty scalp. The fletcher's sandy hair, once almost long enough to cover his ears, was now cropped short for easy care. This, coupled with the bags beneath John's eyes and the tired stoop in his gait, made him seem haggard and more than a little mournful.
The mercenary snorted a laugh. 'They grow 'em stupid in your family, don't they, fletcher? We're outnumbered six- or seven-to-one. The damned barbarians are probably sitting a few miles east of here, laughing at us.'
Turning his red-rimmed eyes on the mercenary, Razor John bit back a retort. He'd made the comment about the Tuigan more as a way to lighten the youth's foul mood; he was certainly wise enough to know that their situation was indeed desperate. But Yugar, a young, inexperienced Cormyrian mercenary, seemed intent on finding fault with everything.
With an exaggerated swing of his lanky arm, Yugar tossed down his ax. 'And I was fooled into thinking there was money in this idiotic crusade.' He slapped his forehead with a grimy palm. 'Worse, I believed Azoun's babble about our responsibility to the rest of Faerun.'
There had been times in the last two days when Razor John had questioned his own wisdom for venturing so far from home to fight an unknown enemy. And nothing had challenged his resolve more than the death of some of his friends in the first battle. He could still see their mangled corpses staring up at him as if shocked by their own deaths. Luckily, Kiri Trollslayer had escaped harm, but several soldiers John had befriended had perished the day before. But even those deaths had not convinced him that Azoun's crusade had been foolish.
'Why don't you just slink away?' the fletcher hissed as he slammed his ax into the wooden pole. 'The army will be better off without you, coward.'
Yugar laughed again, this time loud enough to turn a few heads. The Cormyrian mercenary ignored the blank stares
of his comrades and picked up the claymore at his feet. 'They call me Yugar the Brave back in the Stonelands,' the boy boasted. He spun his sword a little awkwardly and lowered the point at Razor John. 'And you'd best apologize or you won't live to see the Tuigan again.'
Something inside the fletcher snapped. Without thinking, John slapped the mercenary's blade away and landed a fist against the boy's jaw. Yugar tumbled backward over the pole he'd been working on; As the mercenary's claymore spun through the air, the fletcher rushed forward and planted a heavy-booted foot on his thin chest.
'Braggarts like you make a mockery of everything we've given up-no, everything I've given up for this crusade,' John said, pressing his steel-shod boot down over Yugar's heart.
'Let me up!' the mercenary bellowed in impotent rage. He cursed and clumsily swung his arms, trying to get a grip on John's leg.
With lightning quickness, the fletcher pulled the dagger from his belt and brandished it over the prone soldier. 'I'm here because I believe in Azoun's cause, sell-sword, not for the silver I'll earn for killing Tuigan.' He lowered
