"They didn't show up," Vangerdahast replied. "We waited quite a while, but no one came."
The dwarf's face darkened in anger again. He turned abruptly to the kneeling sentries and snapped, "Gather up a patrol and find the escort I sent out." After a pause, he added, "Bring them to me when you find them." The guards rushed to the task.
Vangerdahast decided then that he was going to have to brush up on the spell that allowed him to comprehend strange languages. Torg's habit of slipping in and out of Dwarvish made the wizard uneasy. Since it was his job to keep Azoun safe while away from the ship, Vangerdahast knew he'd feel more secure if he could understand what everyone said at all times.
Torg exhaled sharply, as if he were expelling his anger. The ironlord then faced his guests. "Please allow me to escort you through the camp personally." He spun on the heels of his thick-soled boots and marched down the hill.
Azoun and Vangerdahast quickly fell into step behind the dwarf. Torg's short legs didn't hinder his speed, the humans soon learned. The dwarven king set a good pace as he stomped toward the camp. Walking behind Torg, Azoun noted that, apart from the gleaming metal of his armor and sword, the dwarf was decked out entirely in red and black. Blood and thunder, he concluded silently.
For his part, Vangerdahast was studying the layout of the dwarven camp. The hill the wizard marched down led to a large, grass-covered plain. Uniform, brown tents spread in straight lines across the open area. The precision of the lines astounded the wizard, who had assumed the camp would be like most human camps: relatively chaotic sprawls held together only by proximity.
Before the two kings and the wizard reached the first tent, they saw the army. Hundreds upon hundreds of short, stocky dwarven soldiers marched in precise ranks. The bright sunlight glinted off their polished armor and the blades of their weapons. Azoun noted with some surprise that the dwarves were carrying polearms.
"You make them drill in full armor?" Azoun asked Torg as they got near a formation. He knew from experience that the hot, early summer sun would be devastating on the armor-clad soldiers.
The ironlord stopped and looked at Azoun, puzzlement showing on his face. "How do you expect them to fight in armor if they don't train in armor?"
"But the sun. The heat will-"
Torg snorted. "It may well be sunny on the day of the first battle. The men will be glad we did this then." The dwarf shaded his eyes and looked up into the sky. "I hate the sun myself. Too damned bright." He turned to Vangerdahast. "Of course, we don't get this much sunlight underground. Another good reason to drill the troops in it."
Surveying the army for a moment, the wizard scratched his head and said, "This is the first dwarven army I've seen with polearms." He motioned to the marching troops. "Why are you training with pikes?"
A wicked gleam flickered in Torg's dark eyes, which neither Azoun nor Vangerdahast missed. "Do you remember the human general I mentioned in my letters?" Without waiting for a reply, Torg said to Azoun, "The human was very familiar with Your Highness's treatise on the use of polearms in warfare. Recommended it so highly, in fact, I read the book myself. Quite enlightening."
Azoun bowed slightly, a little embarrassed by the unexpected praise. "You intend to use the pikes against the Tuigan?"
"Of course."
"But the Tuigan are archers," Vangerdahast exclaimed. "Pikes won't do you any good if they stay two hundred yards away and fire arrows at you." He gestured at the drilling troops. "You'll be slaughtered."
Torg laughed and dismissed the wizard's comments with a wave of his hand. "Yamun Khahan has never faced dwarven troops before, and I'm sure his warriors' arrows haven't been tested against plate armor forged in Earthfast." The ironlord put his short, round fingers to his mouth and whistled. "And we have ranged weapons of our own."
The dwarven captains who were scattered throughout the field signaled to soldiers carrying large drums. The drummers beat a fast, chaotic riff, and the army rushed into a long line, three dwarves deep. As the soldiers in the front rank knelt and planted their pikes in a defensive wall, the back two ranks quickly drew and cocked heavy crossbows. The dwarves made it look easy, but the strength required to ready a crossbow would have made it practically impossible for human armies to accomplish that maneuver in so short a time.
Torg beamed with pride. He raised a hand, signaling the captains again, and a new cadence was sounded. The dwarven troops disarmed their crossbows, slung the heavy weapons on their belts, and regained their pikes. The drumbeat changed yet again, and the troops broke into four large squares, twenty dwarves wide by twenty dwarves deep. The edges of each square bristled with pikes.
Azoun, almost caught up in the display of amazing military training, saw that Torg was looking at him, obviously waiting for a compliment. "Impressive," the Cormyrian king said at last. "Perhaps you can give our troops a few pointers."
The ironlord laughed, a deep bellowing sound that seemed to echo in his chest before breaking into the world. "Indeed," he said, giving Azoun a solid slap on the back. Vangerdahast concluded then and there that he didn't like the ruler of Earthfast very much at all.
Torg ordered the troops to resume the regular drills. With a rumble of drums and the clatter of armor, the squares broke into marching columns. Satisfied with the display, the ironlord led his guests toward a pavilion at the heart of the dwarven camp. As they walked through the tent city, both Azoun and Vangerdahast were amazed at the absolute order of the place. Not only were the tents arrayed in straight lines, but gear was stored in neat piles and even the inevitable garbage dump was kept contained in a tidy, square enclosure.
The dwarven camp was like none Azoun had ever seen or even heard about. He suddenly wished Thom Reaverson had come along. The bard would have found the place fascinating.
"I have yet to hear from the troops your allies in Zhentil Keep are sending," Torg said as he entered the pavilion. The king winced slightly at being called an "ally" of the Keep, but, in this instance the term was accurate.
"They should have been here by now," Vangerdahast noted as he sat at a low, long table. "In fact, they should have reached here more than a day or two ago… if Zhentil Keep is honoring the agreement."
Vangerdahast's concern was not lost on Azoun. The king ran a hand through his gray-shot beard and sighed. If Zhentil Keep broke the treaty, it might mean they intended to invade the Dales. In truth, the king realized, they could be attacking even as he sat there, pondering the point. "I should contact the queen," he told the wizard. "She might have heard something recently."
"You'll have time for that in a bit," Torg said, scowling at the reference to the wizard's magic. "I'll send some scouts to the north and west. That'll do for now." He took three brightly polished silver mugs from a metal case and set them on the table. He turned his dark eyes to the pavilion's door and yelled something in Dwarvish.
A smartly liveried squire rushed into the tent, carrying a large wooden keg. The dwarf's beard was short and, unlike Torg, his face was almost free of deep-set wrinkles. Azoun assumed the servant was very young, but he always found it extremely difficult to estimate a dwarf's age.
"Drink," Torg said, opening a silver spout in the keg and filling the mugs. He handed one to Azoun and the other to Vangerdahast, then hefted the third and raised it in a toast. "To the complete destruction of the Tuigan. May the corpses of the horsewarriors reach to the sky!"
"Indeed," Vangerdahast said weakly, rather appalled at the crass toast. Azoun repeated Torg's toast more enthusiastically. The dwarf's bellicose oath brought back memories of Azoun's time with the King's Men, promising over mugs of ale to vanquish all the evil in Faerun.