The king rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I think it would be best if you gathered your troops in the field to the east, as the dwarves ask."
Without a pause or another word, Vrakk stood and grunted a command in Orcish. The Zhentish soldiers muttered to themselves, but they filed out of the pavilion and headed east. Most of the orcish army was still gathered in the field, but a few had wandered into the dwarven camp. Whenever he saw one of his men, Vrakk would yell out orders. Any orcs slow in responding got a solid blow to the head to remind him of his duty.
As soon as Vrakk and his leather-armored orcs were gone from camp, Azoun and Vangerdahast hurried to Torg's tent. As they crossed the compound, the king and the mage noted that the dwarves were breaking down tents. Like everything else they did, the troops from Earthfast dismantled their bivouac with steadfast deliberation.
"I think I prefer the orcs," Vangerdahast said as he watched a pair of gray-bearded dwarves take down a tent in silence.
Azoun shook his head. "We need Torg and his troops, Vangy. I don't know if we can beat the Tuigan without them."
The guards opened the door to the ironlord's tent as soon as Azoun and Vangerdahast got close. The Cormyrian king noticed that twice as many armed and armored sentries, all wearing the black surcoat of the ironlord's elite guard, stood watch around Torg's tent. The dwarves' spotless armor and perfect military formation as they paced a perimeter around their leader's tent gave Azoun an idea.
Upon entering the dark tent, the king said, "I'm disappointed in you, Ironlord. I'd heard your word was worth more than this." Vangerdahast cast a surprised look at his friend; he hadn't expected Azoun to take the offensive in this matter so quickly.
Torg, who was supervising the packing of his few belongings, frowned. The ironlord's black beard hid the expression, but Azoun and Vangerdahast saw the dwarf's anger in his eyes. "It's no use, Azoun. We're going back to Earthfast. My men won't fight alongside orcs."
The Cormyrian monarch glanced at his daughter. She sat silently at the edge of the tent, her drawn sword resting on her lap. "Your soldiers would fight at my side if you ordered them to, if you allowed them to," the king said harshly, returning his eyes to Torg.
Azoun's tone made the statement sound like an accusation. To Torg, it seemed as if the king was saying that it was only his reluctance—or cowardice—that prevented the dwarves from joining the crusade.
Which was precisely the impression that Azoun wanted to give.
Looking at the sentries outside, the king had realized that there were only two things that seemed important to the dwarves of Earthfast: order and honor. With a little work, he knew that he might be able to show Torg how leaving the crusade was contrary to both of these—despite the troops they had to fight beside.
Bristling at the slightly veiled insult to his bravery, Torg whirled on the king. "We fight only for good causes," the ironlord hissed. "I doubt any cause that draws scum like that to rally to it."
"Indeed," Alusair said from the shadows. "More than that, Father, it makes me wonder what you gave the Keep to secure their cooperation. I hope it was worth it."
"We're not talking about Zhentil Keep or my policies," Azoun snapped. He took a step toward Torg. "I have your word of honor that two thousand dwarves from Earthfast will stand against the Tuigan. Are you going to break that promise?"
The dwarves' actions indicated that they intended to do exactly that, but Torg hedged when confronted with the question. He mumbled something into his beard, then said, "You've broken your part of the bargain, Azoun."
Without hesitation, Vangerdahast pointed a finger at the ironlord. "Far from it," he said coldly. "King Azoun has not broken any such bargain; he offered you nothing in return for your troops but the honor of defending Faerun."
Alusair had moved to Torg's side during the exchange. She sheathed her sword and glared at her father. "This is all political rhetoric. It isn't dishonorable to refuse to fight on the side of ... of murdering animals."
Clenching his teeth, Azoun forced back the growing rage he felt within him. "By that logic, Allie," he said flatly, "you'd fight for the horsewarriors just because they oppose the orcs. That's foolish."
Alusair put her hands on her hips. "But it isn't—"
"No, Princess," Torg grumbled, putting a hand on Alusair's arm. "Your father is right." The ironlord narrowed his eyes and studied the Cormyrian king for a moment. "I want retribution for the soldiers who were slain."
"That's reasonable," Azoun conceded. He looked at Alusair, but she would not meet his gaze.
"And I will not allow the orcs to travel with my troops," Torg added. "You will take them down the coast in your ships. We will march the rest of the way and meet you in Thesk."
Azoun had known from the start that the troops from Earthfast would not travel by boat. Some clans of dwarves preferred to keep in contact with the earth, the source of their prosperity, the sustainer of their mining cities. The king suddenly realized that Torg's demand that the orcs be taken to Telflamm by ship was, in fact, something the dwarf could tell his generals he received as a concession from the humans. Though he hadn't yet discussed it with the ironlord, Azoun had intended taking the Zhentish troops aboard his ships from the start.
The king nodded. "Your demands are fair, Ironlord. I will transport the orcs."
"This is all rather absurd," Vangerdahast said. "Why is the dwarven army walking all that way when we could easily provide transport for them, too?"
"You may understand magic, wizard," Torg replied, turning his back on Vangerdahast, "but you don't understand dwarves. I gave my word to fight, so I will honor that." He paused and rattled his birdcage. "To ask my troops to travel by sea is to ask them not to be dwarves."
A dwarven officer entered the tent and kneeled. "We'll be ready to leave by highsun," he reported.
Pausing for only an instant, Torg said, "Tell the troops to prepare for the march south."
The officer started to speak, then thought better of it and stood. "By your command, Ironlord," he said and spun sharply on his heels.
When the officer was gone, Torg sighed. "We can set up the logistics of the march later. Now, I want Vrakk to give me the orcs responsible for the deaths of my soldiers."
Within minutes, Azoun, Vangerdahast, Torg, and Alusair found themselves once again in the field to the east of camp. The sun was high over the hills, close to its zenith. A group of five hundred or so dwarves stood at attention in the hot sun, adorned in full armor. The orcs sprawled on the ground, shielding their faces from the bright sunshine with rat-eaten cloaks, packs, or whatever else they could find. At the center of this ragtag group, Vrakk and his lieutenants huddled around the giant's skull standard, arguing noisily. If they noticed Azoun's approach, the orcs didn't show it.
"Commander Vrakk," the king said sharply when he reached the standard, "we must discuss an incident that possibly involved your men."
Alusair and Torg nervously eyed the soldiers, and both of them kept their hands close to their weapons. Vangerdahast stood behind Azoun, a spell ready in his mind. He tapped his foot in irritation, as well. The orcs were not nearly so concerned with their camp as the dwarves were, and even that temporary resting spot was cluttered with garbage and puddles of waste; the smell alone was making the mage queasy.
A short orc with an especially piggish snout started to speak, but Vrakk kicked him in the back. "What problem now, Ak-soon?" the orcish commander asked, a bit of a whine in his voice. "We want to fight, not sit in sun all day."
"There was a dwarven patrol of three murdered yesterday on its way to the shore," Azoun said, the accusation clear in his voice.
Vrakk nodded. "They attack orc scouts," he responded casually. Grabbing a piece of meat from one of the other orcish soldiers, he stuffed the raw flesh into his mouth.
Torg stepped forward. "I want blood-payment," he rumbled. An orcish lieutenant moved between the ironlord and Vrakk, but Alusair drew her sword. Before the orc could respond, the princess's blade rested at his throat. Two dozen other Zhentish soldiers leaped to their feet and drew their weapons. As Vangerdahast prepared to cast his spell, the dwarven troops began a quick march across the field to their ironlord.
Before anyone drew blood, however, Vrakk yelled a single command in Orcish. Thanks to the spell he had cast previously, Vangerdahast could understand what the orcish leader was yelling. Still, he wasn't all that sure the troops would "stand down" as Vrakk demanded.
"Lower your weapon, Allie," Azoun said, taking a slow, careful step toward his daughter. "We're all dead if you don't."
The princess pushed the blade against the orc's throat just hard enough to draw a trickle of blood, then lowered it. The orcs around Azoun's party relaxed slightly. However, they, too, kept their weapons at the ready.
Vrakk pushed the orc on whom Alusair had drawn her sword. Looking down on Torg with dark, beady eyes, he asked, "What about orcs you kill last night?"
"They were spies," Alusair said. "You killed soldiers assigned to escort King Azoun from his ship."
After gnashing his teeth together for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, Vrakk replied, "OK. I give blood-payment. Then Ak-soon take us to fight."
Torg was surprised that the orc agreed so readily. "The blood of one for each dwarf killed." The ironlord held up three stubby fingers.
The dwarven troops had reached the orcish line by now. Torg's soldiers stood silently as the orcs jeered at them. All along both lines, swords stood at the ready.
"Be prepared to grab Alusair's arm and reach for my hand if anything goes wrong," Vangerdahast whispered in Azoun's ear. "This is far too dangerous for us to chance any longer."
Vrakk shouted out three names. A trio of orcish soldiers lazily appeared next to the standard. Waving his arms wide to spread his troops out in a semicircle, Vrakk grunted a command. One of his lieutenants took the three ores' swords, then shoved the soldiers one by one onto the ground. The prisoners squealed curses, but didn't fight their captors. They knew resistance was futile.
Grandly the orcish commander gestured to Torg, then to the prostrate soldiers. "These three guilty," he said loudly. "I take blood-payment." Without another word, he drew his weapon—a huge, darkly stained bastard sword—and nodded to the lieutenant.