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 the blade menacingly. "Don't mock the crusade or the king again. I won't stand for it."
As soon as the fletcher raised his foot, Yugar rolled toward his sword. He glanced back at Razor John, then slowly stood and picked up his weapon. For an instant, the fletcher wondered if the boy was going to attack. An angry shout settled the question.
"I'll have you both standing unarmed and naked before the next Tuigan charge if you don't get back to work!" Brunthar Elventree shouted.
Razor John sheathed his dagger and pulled his ax from the pole. The fiery dalesman who commanded the Alliance's archers moved to the fletcher's side.
"Is there a problem here, soldier?" Brunthar growled, gesturing at Yugar. "Have you mistaken him for a barbarian?"
Razor John looked up at the general. A broad, bloodstained bandage covered much of the dalesman's bright red hair, and a large lump of cotton wadding lay over his right ear. John knew that General Elventree had lost part of that ear to a Tuigan sword in the first battle. "No, sir," the fletcher replied.
Narrowing his eyes, Brunthar studied John for a moment, just long enough to make the fletcher uncomfortable. "I won't have any more fights between you, then," he said at last. He flicked his eyes to Yugar, and when he saw the mercenary was still scowling, Brunthar pointed to another cluster of workmen. "Get moving. I want you preparing spikes with those men."
Yugar muttered a curse, but turned away quickly and headed toward the other workmen. Brunthar had heard the remark, though. He was considering how to make the young mercenary regret the stupid comment when a commotion broke out behind him. When he spun around, he expected to see another brawl; the presence of both King Azoun and his daughter certainly surprised the commander of the Alliance's archers.
The king was dressed in a tunic of royal purple, with hose to match. He limped heavily upon his wounded left leg and used a walking stick of plain, dark wood for support. Except for the walking stick-and the Cormyrian battle crown that rested upon his wrinkled brow-Azoun looked like many of the soldiers who prepared for the battle. In her chain mail hauberk and silken surcoat of purple, Alusair was clothed the same as any member of the king's guard.
"Your Highness," Brunthar said, bowing formally. "I hope you are feeling well this afternoon."
Azoun nodded and lifted his walking stick in a casual salute. The dalesman's formal greeting was a great sign of deference, the king realized, so he did not let the opportunity to return the favor pass. "Our healers seem to be able to call upon their gods for miracles," he replied. After a cursory glance at the fortifications the archers were preparing under Brunthar's guidance, the king added, "Very impressive work, General Elventree."
"Thank you, Your Highness," the dalesman replied. "Everything is as you and the princess requested."
"But better than we had hoped to build in so short a time," Alusair offered, following her father's lead. "Let's hope the rest of the Alliance will be as prepared for the battle as your men."
After bowing again, Brunthar looked toward the sun. "The meeting is at sunset?" he asked.
"Indeed." The king motioned with his walking stick toward the stretch of the Golden Way that snaked out from the western lines. "Out in front of the first rank. We'll see you there."
Azoun and Alusair set off on their tour of the lines again, leaving Brunthar and the archers to their work. For the last hour, the king had been walking through the camp, his daughter at his side. The review was mostly for show, to let the troops know that he was healthy and in command of the Alliance again. It was a painful exercise in rumor-quashing, however, and the king often found his leg wound throbbing angrily at the exertion.
"General Elventree has certainly changed in the last month," Azoun noted. He grimaced slightly as he made his way over a small ditch. "When he first took command of the archers he had no regard for my position at all."
"Is that why you were so careful to compliment him?" the princess asked.
Azoun nodded, then gave a short bow in response to the greetings of a group of archers. "Partially. Brunthar has proven himself a good commander. The dalelords were correct in sending him." He paused and marveled at how much he had opposed the idea of a dalesmen commanding the archers.
"What are the other reasons?"
"Just a moment, Allie," the king said when he spotted a messenger running toward them. After receiving word about the most recent scouting forays, Azoun said, "If we seem to be calm, seem to handle the preparations for battle with some confidence, the troops will take strength from our example. If I praise Brunthar, his men will know they are doing what we expect-"
"So they'll hope they are prepared for the next assault," the princess concluded. She frowned slightly and swatted a mosquito. "I thought so. I mean, that's why I said what I did to General Elventree."