Crusade by James Lowder Page A

national loyalties. We should fight as one, and this means Mourngrym’s demand for dalesmen leading dalesmen is utterly impossible.”
    “Have you even considered letting another man lead the crusade?” Vangerdahast asked quietly.
    “Cormyr is committing the most troops,” replied Azoun sharply. “Are you willing to give them over to another leader?”
    “That depends upon who stepped forward,” Vangerdahast said, though there was little conviction in his voice. His spirit still muffled by his painful error, the wizard meekly returned to his seat.
    “Who, Vangy? Mourngrym, perhaps? How about the Sembians’ mercenaries? Would they have my training in strategy? How about that hotheaded general from Battledale—Elventree?” The king hammered the table with a fist, anger roiling inside of him. “I am the only one to lead this crusade. I am the best trained. I—”
    Azoun ran a hand through his beard and straightened the scabbard at his side. When he spoke again, Vangerdahast heard the cold resolve in his voice. “I know that I’m fighting for what’s right. I fight for Cormyr and for Faerun, not for myself.”
    A deeper sadness took hold of the royal magician as he realized that Azoun was correct. There was no other ruler in Faerun better suited for the crusade, no one who could muster as many troops or lead them against the Tuigan with as much zeal. The wizard pushed himself up from the table and headed toward the door.
    Azoun moved to Vangerdahast’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to see that I’m right,” the king said softly.
    “Your Highness knows this matter best. As your servant, I will support you in any way I can.”
    Vangerdahast heard Azoun’s sigh. “And as my friend?”
    The wizard gazed deep into the king’s oak-brown eyes. “As your friend I am sorry that you are the best man to lead the army against the horsewarriors.”
    “Then that will have to do,” Azoun said. He took his hand off Vangerdahast’s shoulder. The wizard turned and exited the room, leaving the king alone to study the faces on the tapestry once more.

3
Razor John
    “Sure flights! Razor points!”
    The fletcher’s cry rang out over the marketplace. Other wandering sellers called, “Nice red apples!” or “Boots mended! Leather repaired!” The fletcher’s call, borne by his deep, resonant voice, carried over these and other noises.
    “Sure flights! Razor points! Buy your arrows from John the Fletcher! Only the best from Razor John!” Pausing a moment to settle the heavy cart in his hands, John the Fletcher took in the sights and sounds of Suzail’s market.
    It was a beautiful morning. Winter was finally loosing its grip on Cormyr, and the sun shone brightly in the cloudless azure sky. The nights were still chilly, of course, but the days were getting more and more pleasant all the time. The nice weather brought people out to the market, so merchants and shoppers now crowded the open area reserved for tradesmen like John. A few permanent tents and stalls dotted the dusty expanse, but the place was mostly packed with small-time sellers and farmers. Shoppers bustled from one stall to the next. Cooks frowned at unripe imported fruits and vegetables, and merchants smiled endearingly, trying to lure people toward their goods. Ham and beef and other, more exotic meats roasted over small fires, sending tempting smells and black, greasy smoke twisting into the air. Pack animals brayed, gulls screamed overhead, and people jabbered and bartered, creating a steady, roaring hum that would hang over the square until the sun set.
    “Morning, milady,” John said to a passing flower peddler. He lifted his black felt hat with one gloved hand and grinned at the pretty young woman. John had seen her around the market before, and by the purple sash she wore around her waist, he could tell that she was a maiden looking for a mate.
    She passed the fletcher by without so much as a second glance. John shrugged,