Alusair grabbed her cuirass and stood up. The trumpet called out again, a harsh, trilling note. "Orcs," the princess hissed. "The sentries have spotted orcs."
As Alusair retrieved the brassards that would cover her arms, Azoun moved to the tent's door. Dwarven troops mustered quietly in the darkness outside. The stocky soldiers marched quickly out of their tents, toward the edges of the camp. Their faces were set in grim determination.
"We've got to go, Father," Alusair said. The king turned to see his daughter, her armor slung over her shoulder, waiting to leave. "This isn't a particularly safe spot. I'll escort you across the compound to Torg's tent, then you and Vangy should head back to the ship."
The king frowned. "I'll see Torg, but I'm not all that sure I'm leaving just yet."
With the skittering sound of metal sliding across metal, the princess drew her sword. "You don't have a weapon, do you?"
Smiling, Azoun reached to his high leather boot and withdrew a slender silver dagger. The lanterns cast small glints of light off the stiletto's razor edge. "I've had too many attempts on my life to ever travel unarmed."
The king and the princess crossed the central square of the dwarven camp. Soldiers continued to march through the square, heading toward their assigned mustering stations. The troops were fully armored and carried crossbows and swords. Apart from an occasional trumpet blast or shouted order, the camp remained strangely silent.
"Silence is a virtue for Earthfast's soldiers," Alusair explained as they walked toward Torg's compound. "They're used to fighting underground. Any noise made in the caves and tunnels would echo, and that could hide an enemy's location."
Azoun watched a mail-clad dwarf pull a pointed helmet over his head, then trudge off. "Don't you find it disconcerting?" he asked. "I don't think human troops are ever this quiet."
"I'd know who to place a wager on in a battle, wouldn't you?" Alusair asked in response. She stopped alongside a firepit, its flames low, the fire mostly extinguished. The princess kicked dirt into the stone-encircled pit to douse the feeble blaze. Before her father could ask why, she said, "They're used to fighting in the dark, remember? Any light like this-" She gestured at the smoldering ash with her toe. "It could take away their advantage in a night battle."
The pair soon reached the ironlord's tent, directly across the open square from the pavilion Azoun had occupied. Breathless messengers hurried in and out of the large, black tent. The runners wore leather armor studded with metal. Even with that heavy burden, they dashed as quickly as their short legs could carry them, relaying orders for the dwarven commanders. Two guards holding pikes stood at strict attention in front of the royal tent.
"Tell the ironlord I've brought King Azoun of Cormyr to the safety of his presence," the princess commanded one of the guards in perfect Dwarvish. The sentry nodded his helmeted head once and spun sharply to the door. When he opened the heavy cloth covering the entryway, Azoun heard Torg growling what must have been orders. The ironlord's loud voice contrasted sharply with the quiet of the camp. As soon as the door fell closed again, the voice was muffled to near silence.
"The tent is made of thick felt, laced with metal," Alusair whispered in response to the king's puzzled look. "They designed it especially for Torg to use in this campaign."
The guard exited the tent and held the door open, a sign for the princess and the king to enter. As he went in, Azoun was amazed at the contrast between the dark, silent camp and Torg's bright, noisy headquarters. The dwarven monarch sat on a stone dais across from the door. He already wore much of his armor; a squire was fastening the last straps of the cuisses on the ironlord's legs. To Torg's left, a tall golden birdcage stood. Three small, brilliantly colored birds fluttered about inside the cage, chirping happily.
"We've got trouble, Princess," Torg bellowed in Common as soon as he saw Alusair. "Pryderi mac Dylan found the escort we sent out earlier. Dead, of course." The dwarven king pounded his fist on the edge of his throne. "Orcs, they say. Signs of them all around the camp."
"The Bloody Skull?" the princess asked.
Torg pushed the squire away and finished the straps himself. "No. From what Pryderi found, this is a new band."
Azoun stepped forward. "How many?"
"Hard to tell, Your Highness. Has your daughter told you about our orc problems?"
"Daughter?" the king gasped, looking from Torg to Alusair, then back again. "You know?"
"Who do you think told me about your treatise on polearms?" The dwarven king grinned and turned to the princess. "A happy family again, eh?"
"I told him who I was only a few days past, when it was too late for him to contact you, Father." Frowning slightly, Alusair decided to change the subject right away. "Where's the magician who was with my father when he arrived?"
Turning to the birdcage, Torg leaned forward, placing his face against the bars. The birds danced around the cage, twittering loudly. "Do you keep birds in your palace, Azoun? They are fantastic creatures. Almost the greatest thing the gods set on Toril, don't you think?" He cast a glance at Azoun, then gazed into the cage again. "We use them in the mines. If the air goes bad, the birds die first."
Alusair sighed. "The wizard, Ironlord. Where is he?"
"I caught him wandering about the camp, so I sent him with one of the patrols. Perhaps he can determine how many orcs are lurking out there." The dwarven king threw a cloth cover over the birdcage, then reached for his surcoat. "I didn't want a spellcaster in camp, if I could help it anyway. No insult intended, Azoun, but I just don't trust magic."
Azoun heard a trace of fear in Torg's voice, but he wasn't surprised. Dwarven communities tended to foster natural strength and endurance in their people. Little sorcery was permitted. Dwarves often created weapons and armor that, because of their exquisite making, had magical powers, and dwarven clerics-who called upon their gods for the ability to cast spells-were common, too. However, mages were people to be feared, for their arts were not rooted in the power of the earth, religious beliefs, or simple craftsmanship.
"No insult taken," Azoun said. "Vangerdahast can defend himself if the need arises, and he certainly knew of the dwarven aversion to magic before he came here."
The stoic guard who had announced Azoun's presence earlier entered the tent once again. "Pryderi mac Dylan's patrol has returned," he said in Dwarvish, his helmet muting his voice to a low rumble.
Torg pulled his surcoat on over his armor. After adjusting the black tunic so the blood-red phoenix lay squarely positioned on his chest, he said, "Show Pryderi in." As the guard moved to usher in the new guests, Torg told Azoun and Alusair to take a seat on the stone benches that were on either side of the tent.
The red-bearded dwarf who had threatened Azoun atop the hill strode into the tent. His beard was tangled slightly, and his surcoat was torn and mud-splattered. "Ironlord," he said as he entered, "I have much to report." He dropped stiffly to one knee and bowed his head. "The mage cast a spell and discovered a little about the orcs."
Azoun could understand only fragments of what was being said, but Alusair spoke and understood Dwarvish well.
At the mention of the mage, she said, "Ironlord, Vangerdahast should be allowed into your presence."
"Of course" Torg said casually. "Squire, tell the guards to let him in."
Vangerdahast entered a moment later. The bottom of his long robe was covered with mud, and brambles still clung to his sleeves. Like Pryderi's, the mage's beard was tangled and dirty. He was picking sharp yellow thorns out of his clothes, muttering curses in Common, when he stepped through the door. He bowed perfunctorily to Torg, then joined Azoun and Alusair.