by Jeff Grubb
As the water stilled from his libations, he looked down and saw himself full in the face: a weak chin tucked beneath two blubbery lips that ran from ear to ear; a pallid complexion that would make an undead look positively perky; limpid, saucerlike eyes (now rimmed in red) placed against a sloped forehead and topped by a hairline that receded all the way to the back of the neck, bracketed by drooping ears tufted with stringy gray locks. Toede smiled, and his teeth flashed in sharp triangles, filed in the traditional hobgoblin manner.
"You handsome devil, you," said Toede aloud.
It was then he noticed his clothing. Worn finery beneath a chain and plate shirt stretched over his portly, malformed frame. Huge shoulder plates imitated the fashions of the dragon highlords. The armor had been specially made, modified from a suit that had belonged to a dwar-ven tax-dodger.
His hunting clothes. He had been hunting? Somewhere along the line he had lost his weapons.
And with that Lord Toede remembered the hunt, the final hunt.
It had been Groag's idea, really. Highmaster Toede, master of the city of Flotsam, had been bored with life at court, bored to tears. Nothing seemed to hold his interest, not feasts, nor entertainment, nor even the occasional interrogation of suspected rebels. Groag had been one of the hobgoblins of the court, a preening, spineless little flunky with the talent of agreeing to everything Toede said. In a rare moment of independent thought, the smaller hobgoblin had suggested a hunt.
And so they went hunting. Toede, Groag, and most of the highmaster's hobgoblin retinue, along with some human servants. Toede had left his normal mount, Hop-sloth, behind and was mounted on his jet-colored war stallion.
A pair of kender were the prey, Toede remembered, Kronin and Tal-something. Rebellious poachers. Led them on a merry chase through the woods south of Flotsam, too. Kender were a miserable, dangerous breed, and kender poachers doubly so. Toede's party had shackled the two together and still the kender ran rings around them. Over the hills, into the briars, through the woods, and at last to the cave.
A cave. That thought stopped Toede for a moment, and his brow furrowed. And what happened next?
The kender were in the cave. They went in to flush them out, and…
And…
Then it hit him, rocking his memory like a large stone dropped from a balcony. A dragon. There was a dragon in the cave. A wild and feral creature, not one of the pets the highlords kept. They had sent the dogs in, thinking the kender were within, and they had awakened it.
His bodyguards scattered under the dragon's assault. Toede tried to rally them, but by that time the dragon had overtaken him. The beast reared over him, there was the sudden white heat of the dragon's breath, and…
And…
And nothing. Absolutely nothing. Blackness, darkness, an Abyss of lost memory.
No. There was the dream-great and powerful figures looking at him, talking in unknown tongues, a gibberish of godspeak. One message. "You shall live like a noble." Then dawn at the edge of this unpleasantly pleasant stream.
What happened? Had he fainted? Perhaps he blacked out from the intensity of the heat and lay prone as the dragon passed over him? Or even wandered off in a daze? Maybe Groag, or some other faithful retainer, seeing his meal ticket endangered, had dragged him to safety, then went looking for help.
Maybe. None of the options felt exactly right. The mental block, a great icy black chunk of lost time, remained in place, resistant to any attempts to pry it loose.
Toede thought about it for a full two minutes, a long time in hobgoblin terms to be devoted to anything not directly connected to violence. Well, nothing to be done about it at the moment, mused Toede. It would come back to him, probably when he least wanted it.
Besides, if Groag had gone for help, there was a good chance that the courtier had become lost. Even by a hobgoblin's standards, Groag was a waste of a spot at the dinner table. All that fancy finery, the rings, the jewelry, the snuff, was like gilding the pig, in Toede's opinion. Groag was still a hobgoblin beneath it all. If it were not for the fact that Groag had been so good at groveling and fawning, Toede would have tossed him to Hopsloth, or to the sharks, a long while ago.
Toede sighed and looked at the sky. Still plenty of daylight. His gaze fell on the stream. The sharks had made him think of the sea. And all streams run, eventually, to the ocean. By following this one he should reach something that resembled civilization.
Heaving himself slowly to his feet, he began padding south along the low grass of the stream embankment, pausing only occasionally to kick the petals off a clutch of wildflowers.
Near the sea is where my throne lies, Toede thought. Ignoble Flotsam, a city-state of bandits and pirates and rummies, humans and kender and less-polite races, a clearing house of corruption and thievery. Home. The first building block in what the highmaster already thought of as the Greater Toede Empire.
Long ago there had been the cavern encampments, the brawls, the savageness of his youth. He had survived by his brains, back then, by pitting one rival against another until he was regarded by all as the next natural leader of the tribe… after his mother died.
Toede slowed for a moment in his walk. Poor Mother. He still remembered the day when the representative of the dragon highlords had arrived, seeking battle-fodder for their wars against the outnumbered human kingdoms. Mother wanted nothing of it. "Hobgobs live free on their own and die free," she kept repeating, as if it meant something of import. The highlord's man said he would wait until dawn for an answer. They argued long into the night, Toede, his mother, and the rest of the tribe. Toede wanted to take the offer; his mother was adamant against it. At last they settled their disagreement in the traditional hobgoblin fashion.
Toede closed his eyes and imagined his mother, standing there in that ancient, uncleaned cave with a bone-handled knife jutting out beneath her heaving right bosom. Her porcine eyes had gone wide; her mouth, already filling with blood from a punctured lung, gurgled a curse. Then she pitched over backward.
Toede opened his eyes and laughed to himself loudly. A half dozen frightened frogs leapt into the stream in surprise. The look on her face! Hilarious!
Well, of course the tribe entered into the service of the dragon highlords, with the condition that Toede himself be trained to lead them in combat. This meant that most of the tribe ended up thrown away in some forgotten battle, while Toede groveled to the higher muckety-mucks safely behind the lines. A little bootlicking, and some character assassination, and soon he was one of the top flunkies in the chain of command.
It was then he noticed that most of the successful humans were like successful hobgoblins-they chose their lackeys from those who would be unlikely or unwilling to replace them. The same political skills that had served him so well in the tribe he wielded here, and wielded them so well that he became the chief aide-de-camp of a highlord himself, Old Verminaard.
Toede sighed at the memory. Those were the days. A little murder, a little spying, a little slaving-no, that particular job didn't pan out as well as he had hoped. If only he had been given decent help, maybe he could have held on to those Solace slaves: Riverwind, Goldmoon, and that gold-skinned youngster, Raistlin. If only he had held on to those slaves, then things might have been different. Ah, well.
At least Verminaard had the good grace to perish in battle with those aforementioned luminaries. A carefully phrased report, a quiet tour watching over the conquered and burned landscape, and Toede had moved on to Flotsam for a new posting.
It was the only thing the highlords could do with someone of his talent. It wasn't as if they could suddenly put him in charge of a wing command, or ask him to lead an army into battle. They tried, at the close of the war-a brevet command to highlord of a dragon wing, a temporary position at best.
But the real work (and real dying) was done by human subordinates, and within days the highlords found a suitable replacement on the field. No, Toede was of more use far from the action, and Flotsam was a quie
t enough backwater that they risked little of the war effort by leaving him in charge there.
Of course they had to give him his own mount, a frog-dragon crossbreed named Hopsloth, and a draconian advisor named Gildentongue, and all the perks. It was a pleasant sinecure, for the most part.
Then the evil dragons fell in on themselves, and it suddenly became important to hang on to what you had. The move to remain behind, to not lead a dragon wing into combat, suddenly seemed to be puissant wisdom. Quickly the sleepy little seaport had a lot more to do with piracy and rogues and all the other evils that inhabited those later days, and more than ever needed a capable administrator.
Toede smiled again, for he had been dealt a good hand, even if he had a devil of a time getting taxes collected and keeping the human chattel in line. And those kender in the hinterlands, always poaching and raiding.
The thought of kender brought Toede back to the real world. With his own retainers and guards driven off, kender might be anywhere, lying in wait to ambush him. He was suddenly painfully aware of his unarmed status. He'd bring a pretty penny in ransom, he would, the high-master of Flotsam.
No, live like a nobleman. High lord of Flotsam. That's what he should be called. With the dragonarmies squabbling among themselves, nobody would begrudge him. He liked the sound of it. It had a nice rhythm. Lord of Flotsam. Lord of Flotsam. Lord of Flotsam.
He already had his own court and his personal guards, though most of them had scattered before the dragon. Toede snorted again. The cowards! He'd see each one of them tortured. No, publicly flogged. Human nobles were into that kind of spectacle, and it would show he didn't play favorites among his own race.
Lord of Flotsam. Lord of Flotsam. Lord of Flotsplosh!
The shock of cold water snapped him out of his reverie as the ground opened up before him. Toede had stepped into a small, shallow pool of water. The vale here widened and the embankment lowered, such that the stream became a wide marsh, dotted with water-filled sinkholes. One such sinkhole had positioned itself in Toede's path, and inconveniently he had tumbled into it.
The water, only knee-deep to a normal man, rose to Toede's hips, completely soaking his leggings and boots.
With a curse, and a remonstration on keeping his mind on matters at hand, Toede scrambled out of the hole in a less-than-lordly fashion and surveyed the land ahead.
The grass grew thicker and was dotted with tails (of cat and horse varieties) as the sinkholes joined together to form a solid, impassible marsh. From Toede's (admittedly low-level) viewpoint, there was no sight of relief or dry land ahead. So much for the theory of all streams leading to the sea. With another curse, Toede turned toward the left-hand, eastern ridge and began to carefully navigate his way along the edge of the swamp.
This land would have been perfect for Hopsloth, thought Toede, with another sudden wave of emotion and nostalgia. He truly missed his assigned mount, a behemoth amphidragon the highlords had granted him when he took over Flotsam. The beast was a fat, sluggish, warty creature, a twisted melding of dragon and amphibian, inheriting the worst of both worlds. Hopsloth had a wide mouth, an insatiable appetite, a pea-sized brain, and a 4azy demeanor. Not surprisingly, Hopsloth and Toede had found common ground at once, and the beast responded well to his orders even if it confined its comments to the deep-seated, belching ribbit or two.
But no, Toede had decided to take a battle stallion on the hunt (and the dark gods only knew where the blasted horse was now). If he had Hopsloth, perhaps he would have avoided all the rest of this mess. He hoped that the courtiers at his manor house remembered to keep his pet well fed. Hopsloth got positively peevish when he was peckish.
The land rose beneath Toede's feet, and he climbed the ridge. About halfway up, the trees began in earnest. Toede turned to look behind him, and saw that the marsh had become a swamp that evolved into a full-fledged lake, without a single sign of sentient habitation or obvious outlet. With a sigh he continued up the hillside, cursing his cowardly courtiers, his runaway stallion, the poaching kender, Hopsloth, Mother, Groag, Verminaard, slaves, and anyone else he could think of. He had reached the top of the hill when a breeze wafted a distinctive smell up toward his sensitive nostrils.
Now, Toede had all the weaknesses of a hobgoblin. Bright lights hurt his eyes, and subtle noises were lost on his battle-dimmed ears. But all hobgoblins retained their sense of smell and taste (if not good taste) throughout their adult lives. Particularly for food.
And that was what Toede smelled now, a goose, no, several geese by the strength of the scent, roasting on spits over an open wood fire (a cultured nose could tell by the amount of fat dripping down on burning logs). He had found someone, and what is more, that someone had had the good sense to cook a meal.
Toede's stomach growled in confirmation. It seemed like it had been ages since he last ate.
Toede quickly followed the scent down the far side of the ridge, careful to move with as much grace and quiet as he could manage. Just because it was food did not mean that it was friendly food. It could mean he'd found his runaway entourage… or poachers.
The brush and undergrowth thickened, which helped keep the small highmaster hidden until he was almost upon the encampment. He closed to within sight of the camp, then moved counterclockwise along its perimeter to a point where he could get a good view, careful not to be seen until he could determine the true nature of those within.
They were poachers, and kender to boot. There were about two dozen huts in a rough circle around a central fire. The huts were made of light willow saplings bent into hemispheres and covered with skins and bull rushes. A few of the kender were lolling about in typical kender fashion-dressed in shirts and leggings made of tanned hide, accented with small flourishes like feathers and bits of metal. The fire itself was a good-sized hearth of stones, indicating this was a semiregular campsite he had stumbled into. A half dozen geese had been dressed and were hanging from tripods over the campfire, their dripping fat causing the tongues of flame to spit and dance. A portly female kender was berating a slower, larger (larger to her, smaller than Toede) creature who was bringing wood for the flames.
Normally Toede would have continued around the encampment, looking for a clear trail out, ignoring his stomach's rumblings. He would have, but at that moment the larger creature dropped the pile of wood he was carrying, and Toede saw his face. A very hobgoblin face. Groag!
Toede was stunned, but only for a moment. Groag's face was thinner, leaner, and not as well tended as Toede remembered, but nonetheless it was his former courtier and chief bootlicker. Same lumpish head, chinless face, and beady eyes that were common to Toede and all hob-goblinsj?ut in addition a nose that looked like it had been flattened by a rock, and a black mop of hair cut bowl-fashion at ear level. Groag's finery had been stripped of him, and the hobgoblin was dressed in worn, tattered buckskins that looked like they had been patched together from several kender's throwaways.
The hobgoblin was shorter than Toede and (in better times) wider, but his presence next to the child-sized kender made him look like an ogre-sized creature next to a human. Groag was nodding dumbly as the kender cook lectured him on some matter of wood hauling. It was then that Toede noticed the manacles on his former lackey's ankles and wrists, and the thick chains that linked them together.
A white fury exploded in Toede's heart. If anyone had the right to toss his servants in irons, it was him, not some ragtag collection of poaching kender. The insult was incredible, he fumed. He should come back after dark and free his companion. This made proper sense, since Groag would probably know the best route out of these marshlands.
At least he should warn Groag to expect something, thought Toede, to prepare for an escape. Careful not to reveal himself too much, Toede attempted to signal his former courtier. Fortunately, the kender cook had her back to him, and no other natives were in sight. Toede waved, trying to catch Groag's attention.
Groag looked directly at him as Toede waved, and his pigg
y hobgoblin eyes widened. Toede placed a finger to his lips and quickly pantomimed the sun going down, then pointed at himself, then at Groag, then made walking-finger motions to show the pair of them escaping.
Repeating the motions a few times, Toede expected Groag to nod in agreement, or at least to look puzzled.
What Toede did not expect was for Groag's eyes to roll up in his pointed little head, and the smaller hobgoblin to pitch backward in a dead faint, sending kindling scattering in all directions. Yet, this was exactly what happened.
As he ducked back into the brush, Toede did not remember if he'd cursed aloud at Groag's reaction. Of all the foolish, stupid things to do! Fainting at the first sign of rescue. There was nothing to do for it but to get out quietly and come back later, hopefully with a detachmenrof guards and Hopsloth.
Toede began backing slowly away, careful to keep as much vegetation between himself and the fire (and the cook calling for aid with a fainted hobgoblin) as possible. He thought he had cleared the area when he felt the sharp point of a dagger placed expertly between the links of his chain shirt.
"Sure and now," said a high-pitched, definitely kender-ish voice, "you wouldn't be leaving us without joining your friend." The pressure from the dagger point grew, and Toede cursed again.
Then Toede raised his hands in surrender and began walking, slowly, back into camp.
Chapter 2
In which Our Protagonist and his faithful servant have a chance to get reacquainted, and are reminded why they did not miss each other too terribly much. However, an opportunity arises before their reunion results in a homicide.
Groag awoke with a head full of bees, his face and hands still tingling from the shock. Had to have been heatstroke, he thought, grasping for consciousness. All the work, all the labor, all the pain-that was the only rational explanation.
The real world swam back into view, and he found he had been carried back to his own hut. His chains had been threaded through the iron bolt driven into a large rock positioned at the hut's center. He could move about the hut in relative ease, but any further escape was impossible. As usual.
