by Jeff Grubb
He had ridden this far, Toede thought, it would be a shame not to inspire just a little panic and fear among them. Toede dismounted and sighed, trying to decide who he would most like to shock into apoplexy first. The magical light source that Bunniswot kept for his all-night sessions shone brightly and steadily, and Toede spotted a solitary shadow moving against the tent wall. "Might as well discomfort the awake first," said Toede. Of course, awake or asleep, Bunniswot likely would have been one of the first people Toede would have brought the bad news to, anyway, just to enjoy the human's reaction.
Toede rapped on the tent wall, and the figure started. Toede was disappointed only in that he had hoped the young scholar would plaster himself against the opposite tent wall in shock.
The shadow moved quickly around the tent. "What?" shouted Bunniswot.
"No time for that/' snarled Toede, pushing aside the tent flap and entering. "We have to evacuate the area at… once." Toede, smirking, strode into the scholar's small tent. Every flat surface and several tilted ones were piled high with paper, rubbings, scrolls, books, and thin metal plates. A strong, steady light was provided by a glowing metal ball set into an iron holder, the entire assemblage mounted on a small cherrywood box.
The cause for the smirk was the scholar's appearance. Bunniswot had a random collage of paper clutched to his bare, hairless chest. He was dressed in pajama trousers with a drawstring top and a long, open-fronted robe. The robe was hand-made, with patches in the shapes of holy symbols and magical formula crudely stitched to it. But the real source of amusement was the scholar's footwear. Each close-fitting slipper had a pair of protruding eyes jutting from the front, as if the scholar had slipped a pair of rabid beavers over his feet.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" shouted Bunniswot softly, in the tone and volume of a man in the mood for arguing but unwilling to wake the neighbors. He stomped his foot for emphasis. Toede noticed the eyes on his slippers were clear little half-shells, with black marbles set inside, and they wiggled as he stomped.
Toede tried unsuccessfully to stifle the image of Bunniswot running from the gnolls, his little foot-eyeballs spinning. Instead he said, "Scholar, you and your party are on grounds that are sacred to a tribe of gnolls. They are massing for a major attack shortly after sunrise." Unless they get bored and kill Groag early, he added silently. "Your cook and I were ambushed, and I barely escaped with my life. It is imperative that you and the others leave this place as soon as is humanly possible."
Bunniswot grimaced and collapsed onto his folding chair, much like a man who had just had his shin tendons severed. The papers fell from his hands, cascading onto the ground. He raised a delicate hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes tightly.
"But our scouts said that there were no gnolls around here," the scholar said weakly. "Kender, yes, a necromancer, yes, but no gnolls."
"Next time make sure to check the swamp," said Toede, walking up to a pile of papers lying on top of a leather trunk. "I'll go wake the others, then I'll ride to Flotsam for help. You probably won't be able to load up this mess, and it would slow you down, anyway. If you want to save your work, you should put the most important material in a trunk and bury it, then come back later." And if you're like most scholars, thought Toede with a malicious grin, you'll still be organizing your piles of notes when the gnolls come crashing down on the last few moments of your life.
Instead, Bunniswot responded, "Perhaps it's better this way. Everything here will be trampled if we're attacked. If we're lucky, they'll burn the entire lot of it." Then he gave out a brittle cry, put his head in his hands, and began to sob.
Toede did not fancy himself an expert on human behavior beyond the standard buttons he could push to get his way: fear, terror, greed, threats, greed, fear, and greed. But it struck him that this was odd behavior for a man whose life's work was in the direct path of a gnoll invasion.
Perhaps the ogres had dark secrets that no living mortal should know. That was worth investigating. Toede glanced at the papers he had been clearing. The scholar's handwriting was crabbed but readable in the pale light of the tent.
"I didst come unto her skyclad and unshorn, seeking the teachings of the flesh, wearing nought but my finger cymbals and the night air," Toede intoned. Eyebrow raised, he looked at Bunniswot. The scholar just shook his head and returned to sobbing.
Toede picked up another piece of foolscap. "We danced among the water lilies that evening, Angelhair and I, and dined upon each other's fleshly pleasures."
A third. "… and we were joined in our revels in the pavilions by two others, fair of face and unmarred of beauty, their eyes as bright and comely as the pale full moon…"
Bunniswot sighed deeply. "Stop," he pleaded. "I'm so ashamed."
"This is your secret?" smirked Toede. "That you toil through the night writing naughty poetry? A minor sin at best, punishable by brief immersion in white-hot magma. Nothing to lose your grip over. The gnolls can't even read."
"You don't understand." Bunniswot, tears in his eyes, looked up. "It's all like that. All of it." He gestured around the tent walls.
Toede realized that the scholar meant the forest of stone beyond. "You mean the pillars," he said, now smiling broadly.
"Yes, the bloody pillars," cursed Bunniswot. "I've deciphered forty of them now."
"And they're all…" prompted Toede.
"This!" He picked up a packet and threw it against the far wall. The pages fluttered like pigeons landing in the square. "Love poems! Trysts! Revels! Rendezvous! Smut!"
"That's really, really interesting," said Toede, edging
toward the tent entrance. "And perhaps we can discuss it later, say, after you hurry up and save your life."
Bunniswot ignored him. "I put Renders up for this exploration, did you know that? I found references to this place in preCataclysmic texts, stressing its age, its beauty, its mysterious origins. There was supposed to have been a great battle here, where the local inhabitants, my ur-ogres, battled and caged a creature of the Abyss. I expected a lost city, a temple, or at least a monument. Something to justify the time and effort. Something worth publishing."
Toede thought for a moment, then said, "Perhaps later you could spruce it up a bit, clean up the smut. Sort of a vulgate version, for the masses."
"This is the cleaned up version," said the scholar, seeming ready to collapse again. "Even the vulgate is vulgar," he sighed.
"And you haven't told Renders because…"
"Oh, Gilean's book and bladder, I can't. He showed so much faith in this project, and all I have to show for it is…"
"Ogre pornography," said Toede, shaking his head. "Not that this should depress you any further, but there are bloodthirsty gnolls to worry about now."
"What shall I do? What can I do?" moaned Bunniswot, staring at the debris in his tent.
"What you would do anyway?" said Toede, realizing that Bunniswot in his present condition was not high on the list of prospective survivors of the upcoming massacre. "Pack as much as you can, particularly your… er, translations, while I wake the others. Then have them bury the chest, but not so deep that water can't get to it. Then you wait several years before coming back and discover your notes have been destroyed. You reconstruct as much as possible, but of course, the gist of it is lost. Your reputation is saved, not to mention your life."
Bunniswot shook his head for a moment, then said quietly, "That could work."
"Goood," purred Toede, edging to the opening of the tent. "I'll wake Renders and get everyone else."
Once outside in the cool autumn darkness, Toede fought the urge to double over in laughter. It was unbelievable what humans would worry about when faced with extinction. This experience made his third life worth living, regardless of whatever happened next. Maybe it would be worth saving these humans after all, just to watch Bunniswot go crazy trying to hide his little off-color secret from the others.
"Ogre love poems," he chuckled, heading for Re
nders's tent.
*****
"Ah. Quite impossible, you realize," said Renders, stroking his beard. "We couldn't pack sufficiently in darkness, even given a, ah, day or so. There is too much left to be done."
It was ten minutes and one quick explanation after Toede left Bunniswot to his fate of "publish and/or perish." Renders was being more difficult than the hobgoblin had deemed possible. Once more, the hobgoblin was on the verge of abandoning the thick-headed humans to their fate.
Instead Toede argued, "Lef s recapitulate. A huge horde of hundreds of gnolls is about to attack at dawn, maybe…" He made some mental calculations about Groag's ability to hold out. "Thirty minutes afterward, tops. They will be screaming for blood since you're on land they think is sacred. They will kill first, ask monosyllabic questions later. I'm leaving now and strongly recommend you do the same."
"Hmm," said Renders, continuing to stroke his beard meditatively. "No. No. We'd lose too much data, too many samples, too many pot shards. Why, ah, Bunniswof s material alone would take days to properly sort and pack."
"Bunniswot is already packing the best of his material," said Toede, imagining the fire-haired young scholar stuffing as much ogre erotica as possible into the leather trunk.
"Oh, dear," said Renders. "If he's rushed, something may be accidentally destroyed."
He should be so lucky, thought Toede, while continuing aloud, "I've done my duty. I've brought the warning, and if you're smart you'll withdraw to Flotsam."
"Wait a tic," said Renders. "You said the gnolls were coming from the, ah, the north, down the path we've been using. Correct?"
"Right," nodded Toede, rolling his eyes.
"And the marshes are to our south and east, and are also gnoll-inhabited, eh?"
"I have had a limited exposure to the extent of the gnolls' influence, but I think it's a given that they could find us easily there," said Toede.
"So, ergo, you are trapped here with us," finished Renders, as calmly as a merchant explaining the difference between a chicken egg and a goose egg.
"Beg to differ," said Toede, already halfway to the opening of the tent. "For there's a path from the road north that leads west. Good-bye."
"Ah," said Renders. "Ah. So you don't know, then?"
At the tent opening, Toede turned again. I'm going to regret this, he thought. "Don't know what, then?"
"About the necromancer," said Renders as calmly as if he had said "about the flower shop" or "about the new maid."
I was right, Toede thought, I'm already regretting it. He raised his eyebrows and asked, "Necromancer?"
"Nasty sort," said Renders. "The first scouts we sent were returned as… ah… zombies, carrying a message that he didn't care what we did with the pillars, as long as we stayed out of his territory." Renders thought a moment. "Interesting chap-it seems he can speak through the zombies he creates, like puppets. Or marionettes. Or something like that. In any event, he rules the west."
Toede came back in, leaving the tent flap open to the cool night air. He could feel time slipping away like a handful of mud. He sat down opposite the elder scholar. "My horse wouldn't go that way," he said dully.
"Your horse is, ah, smarter than you," said Renders, not presuming to understand why Toede would have wanted to go in that direction in the first place.
"What you're saying is that we're trapped here," said Toede, mentally cursing himself for not fleeing to Flotsam earlier, not coming up with a better story, not learning about the necromancer, not leaving Charka to die in the first place, not killing himself as soon as he realized he was alive again. Pretty much everything that had occurred in the past few days of his life, he cursed.
"Well," said Renders, counting off the cardinal directions. "Marshes. Marshes. Gnoll army. Necromancer." He nodded. "Seems you are right. Trapped, that is."
A long silence fell between the two as Toede felt the mud of time in his fingers turn to water, and then to vapor. Finally, Renders said, "Perhaps you could talk to them." He ignored the cold look the highmaster gave him, which could have frozen water.
Renders continued. "After all, they are a murderous nonhuman bunch of savages, and you, well…" He motioned toward the empty air as if to say the point was obvious.
"I've learned to chew with my mouth closed, thank you," said Toede, keeping his voice in check and wondering if the gnolls would thank him if he started in on braining a few scholars now. Judging from Charka's earlier attitude toward gratitude, probably not.
"You could at least try. To talk to them," added Renders.
Or talk my way through them, thought Toede, mentally adding another notch to Charka's intelligence for advancing toward the camp along their only real line of retreat. "The problem is," said Toede, leaning back and stroking his chin. "The problem is, we need some superiority, some dominance that they might fear. Say, for example"-Toede looked at the lamplit roof of the tent-"magic. Do you have any wizards of any ability in your group?"
Renders chuckled. "In my experience, wizards aren't very willing to share their knowledge. And they're always looking for this magical item or that artifact. No, we never bring them along on a dig if we can help it."
Bloody wonderful, thought Toede. "What about warriors, someone good with a sword?"
"We had some scouts," said the older sage, "but we let them go soon after we started. Cheaper that way, with the necromancer not bothering anyone, and we didn't know about the gnolls, of course. There's always… you."
"It would be difficult for all of you to hide behind even my muscular, battle-hardened frame," said Toede, confident by this point that Renders was immune to sarcasm. "And besides, I'm not for hire, and I don't think that Groag's cooking would be reason enough for me to want to die at your side."
"Ah," said Renders, jerking himself upright. "Of course. How foolish. I was so used to dealing with the other one, the cook, that I just assumed. Hmmm, where did I put it? Ah!" The elder scholar pulled a large box out from his trunk and rummaged through it. He removed a large gem, about the size of Toede's thumbnail, and set it on the table before the hobgoblin.
"Will that do?" he asked.
Toede picked up the gem and turned it over a few times. If it were a fake, it was one that could pass his critical eye (and by connotation anyone else's, short of a dwarf's). Toede nodded, pocketing the gem. At least I'll die rich, he thought.
Toede looked out at the still-sleeping camp, thinking of recommending that the scholars just take their chances with the swamp or the necromancer. Across the dying embers of the campfire, he could see the clear light of Bunniswot's magical stone, showing the dancing shadow of the young scholar trying to re-cover that which he had so recently uncovered.
Toede smiled. "Actually, Renders, I can talk to them, but first I'll need some things from Bunniswot."
*****
It was a few hours before dawn. Groag was still seated beneath the oak, watching his fingers. He flexed them, wiggled them, and in the likely event that Toede would not reappear, bid them a fond farewell.
Such pleasant hands, he thought, pity they're going to be gone soon, and all because of that rat-bastard Toede. At least he (Groag) had thought better than to tell his captors outright that Toede was likely going to head for the high country as soon as inhumanly possible. There could still be a chance for a miracle rescue, up to the point of the first hatchet-fall on his digits.
He was being watched over by a pair of Charka's guards. Charka didn't seem as interested in him as the gnoll chieftain had been in Toede. Groag idly wondered what the link between the two was. When he wasn't saying mental good-byes to his extremities, that is. If their positions had been reversed, would he have fled? Probably not, but then he (Groag) thought that he (Toede) had sacrificed his (Toede's) life for his (Groag's) own. If that was true, then why was the former highmaster acting untrustworthy this time around?
Groag's gloomy reverie was broken by the sound of approaching hooves. His heart leaped for a moment, but his brain t
urned surly and sour. Whatever it was, he thought, it couldn't be good.
The horse carrying Toede stopped at the edge of the clearing. At first thought Groag thought it wasn't the highmaster at all, that it was one of the scholars disguised as Toede. Then he realized that it was Toede, and that Toede was wearing Bunniswot's ridiculous dressing gown, the one his mother made for him. The gown hung long and loose on the sides, with the sleeves rolled back and tied off at his elbows. The patches of alchemic symbols were dark blotches in the red moonlight.
Toede did not dismount, such that he remained only a little shorter than the surrounding gnolls. The former highmaster intoned in his deepest, darkest pronouncement-style voice: "I bring greetings to Charka from Chief Boils Flesh. Boils Flesh is most displeased with Charka for doubting power of Boils Flesh. Most displeased."
By this time most of the gnolls were staring at the mounted hobgoblin. Toede raised a hand, revealing a small, dark wooden box.
"Boils Flesh gives challenge to Charka," continued Toede.
"Box hold weakest juju of Boils Flesh. If Charka can defeat juju, Boils Flesh and other wizards become dinner. If Charka cannot"-and here Toede smiled his most evil smile-"Boils Flesh will curse Charka and Charka's people."
Toede tossed the box at the gnoll chief's feet. Charka picked it up with all the care usually reserved for a live skunk. The gnoll turned it over in his hands a few times, then carefully lifted the lid.
The bright rays of the light-stone struck the chieftain full in the face. Charka squinted, snarled, and dropped the box. The box hit the ground and flew fully open, bathing the entire region beneath the oak in near daylight.
Gnolls, though unharmed by something as simple as light (unlike vampires, goblins, or other mythological creatures) were by nature nocturnal, so the entire company took two steps backward from the unusual radiance.
Weakest juju indeed, thought Groag bitterly. That was Bunniswof s piece of magical light, purchasable from any hedge wizard passing through Flotsam. Was Toede so stupid as to imagine that Charka had never met a wizard, and had never witnessed a light spell?
