Lord Toede v-5

by Jeff Grubb

  Toede aimed at the wobbling frame and shot.

  Gildentongue reappeared as the arrow struck him and bounced off his scaly hide.

  It was Gildentongue's turn to laugh. "Arrows, little goblin? You'll need better to pierce my skin."

  He reached down to pick up the arrow, noticing that it ended in a broad-headed, inverted cone, with the wide end striking first. A fowling arrow, used by hunters to knock down birds relatively unharmed. The head was smeared with some gummy substance that had left a mark the size of a steelpiece on his chest. Without thinking, Gildentongue touched it. It felt like resin.

  "Not arrows alone," came the shout from beyond the iron doors, where Toede had now retreated. "I took the liberty to coat them with a very potent contact poison. Should work even through your hide. Especially if you have any cuts…" The voice broke up in mocking laughter.

  Gildentongue looked at his clawed hand, radiating with a fine tracery of blood from the broken mirror. He felt the room close in on him, then shook off the effect. Suggestion was as deadly as reality when it came to combat. Tell a warrior he is poisoned, and he acts as such. Mentally Gildentongue cataloged the poisons in the house and figured there would be more than enough time to seek the proper healing magics.

  More than enough time, once he had twisted Toede's head from his shoulders and given it to the city's lamp-urchins to use as a kick-ball.

  Still, Gildentongue felt woozy and resolved to take no more chances. He wrapped himself in his cloak and muttered a few words, moving from there, near the throne, back to here on the near side of the pit, by the doorway. He hesitated and stepped slowly into view.

  And stepped back quickly as a bolt winged through the opening, clattering behind him in the darkness. Gildentongue stepped forward again, but by the time he had entered the main hall, Toede already had another bolt drawn. The broad head of the fowling arrow dripped with some ichorous, spongy substance.

  The draconian held up his hands. 'Talk?" he suggested, smiling, his sharp teeth glowing scarlet in the flickering torchlight.

  Toede kept the bolt leveled on Gildentongue's chest, about fifteen feet away. "So talk."

  'To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Gildentongue asked smoothly. The back of his mind was curling like a snake, ready to strike.

  "This is my house, and you have taken my position," said Toede. "What else needs to be said?"

  "Is that all this is," queried the draconian, "a question of hierarchy? Why, my friend, I was just holding the seat for you. A regency, as it were. Check the records, you'll see. I never thought you truly dead." The back of the dra-conian's brain reached out to the hobgoblin, whispering hypnotically. "I'm a friend. Put down the weapon and let me come closer."

  "I was dead," said Toede, looking the draconian full in the face. "But I'm back to… to…" His voice seemed to lose some of its coherence as the effects of Gildentongue's mental abilities began to infiltrate his brain. 'To be made a nobleman," he said, shaking off the sudden drowsiness.

  "Then let me help," said the draconian, taking one step ahead, then another, into the center of the room, closer to the little highmaster. Gildentongue could feel the energies tingling through his palms. He would blast the flesh from this creature's body and make a chair of the bones. "I can put a good word in, set things up with the highlords. We can finalize that brevet promotion. First thing in the morning."

  The crossbow began to dip, and Gildentongue took another half-step forward. Toede shook his head like a drunkard, trying to shake off the bees that seemed to have lodged in the back of his head. "Not in the morning," he slurred. "Now."

  Whether the command was intentional, accidental, or some part of Toede's subconscious straining to escape Gildentongue's mental control, it worked. Groag had been watching the entire proceedings from above with the interest of a youth watching a snake hypnotize a bird, but when Toede said 'now' his companion reacted immediately, as he had been ordered.

  Groag shoved the first parcel, the dusty one, off the balcony, onto the draconian below.

  It fell like a gray comet, a tail of black dust streaming behind it. The draconian was not hit by it, for it landed at his feet and erupted in a huge ball of small granules that danced in the air and stuck to living flesh.

  It was a burning, acrid cloud of strong spice, pepper to be exact.

  Gildentongue was trapped in a huge cloud of the harsh, abrasive grindings. The draconian sneezed, if the act of trying to expel one's own lungs out one's nostrils could be considered mere sneezing. He waved at the pepper cloud and doubled over in pain as the dust caught in his eyes and nostrils.

  Toede was far enough away to avoid the bulk of the explosion, but his eyes began watering as well, bringing him briskly back to the real world. Cursing himself for letting his guard down, Toede fired a shot at the weaving lizard-man form. At this range hitting anything was easy, and Toede caught the draconian in the face with the fowling arrow. There were two arrows left in the case, and Toede retreated to the right, edging up the grand staircase. As the cloud began to subside, Toede could see that Gildentongue was already gathering his wits about him. Lights pulsed and danced on the creature's fingertips, and Abyss-born eyes now regarded him. "You die now," Gildentongue gagged.

  Toede looked directly above Gildentongue's head and shouted, "Again!"

  Groag threw the second package, the one with the vials, off the balcony.

  Gildentongue spun and shouted, "Not again!" He probably meant to say, "You'll not catch me by the same trick twice," but there was only so much time between when a satchel is tossed and when it strikes the ground. In that brief time Gildentongue managed to lash out with balls of greenish energy from each palm, an attack originally intended for Lord Toede but easily pressed into service to handle a falling package of noxious spices.

  Except there were no spices in the second package, but rather bottles of oil. Fine lamp oil.

  The satchel caught fire, and the oil streaming out from behind it formed a red tail to match the black one of the pepper comet. The entire parcel hit slightly behind and to the right of the draconian, but as with the pepper, accuracy was not a major concern. Upon impact, the remaining vials ruptured, and burning oil splattered in all directions.

  Most of the oil fell on the dirty, bloodstained stones of the hallway and did little damage. A wave of flaming oil engulfed the gagging, poisoned draconian, and was much more effective.

  Gildentongue shouted something in a tongue that Toede did not recognize, but that the hobgoblin assumed was a curse. The draconian dropped to his knees, attempting to roll the fires out, but instead succeeded only in picking up more oil to feed the flames and pepper to be rubbed into his wounds. Toede vaulted up the stairs to the balcony, where Groag was enjoying the proceedings.

  "It's almost beautiful," said Groag, watching the aurak's agony.

  "Beautiful like a dagger in the dark," said Toede, grabbing his companion. "Now we have to get out of here before…"

  Groag was transfixed. "Ooooh, the fires are turning green now."

  Toede shot a look at the first floor and saw that the red flames had subsided and were replaced by ones shot with green, like a coppersmith's hearth. Toede cursed loudly and said, "That means Gildentongue just died."

  Groag smiled. "So he's dead."

  Toede nodded. "So now he's really steamed.

  Groag looked down and saw that the burning form of Gildentongue was rising from the ground in a parody of its former self. Its head had already been charred to a blackened skull, wrapped in pale tongues of green fire. The beast began shambling up the right-hand stairs, leaving a blackened scorch mark in its passing.

  It croaked a single word from its useless throat: "Toede."

  It ascended swiftly. Toede grabbed Groag by the collar and dragged him down the opposite stairs. Or halfway down, since the fabric of the collar tore loose and the pair of them tumbled the rest of the way to the floor. The remains of Gildentongue had reached the top step and now descended
the other staircase after them. The hallway was a smoking, scorched ruin, and small fires still flickered in pools of oil.

  Toede was up and running to the double iron-shod doors of the audience room. He reached them and began to swing them shut when he saw Groag, still at the bottom of the steps, lying on the ground and not moving. Gilden-tongue's eldritch remains were descending the stairs directly above the fallen hobgoblin, glowing more intensely than before. Groag's clothes were already smoking from their proximity to the intense heat.

  Toede bid a fond mental farewell to his loyal retainer. But still, he could not resist one last taunt of his enemy.

  "Gildentongue," shouted Toede, "you're frying the wrong goblin! Remember to tell your masters in the next life how you screwed up to the very end!",

  With that he slammed the door, sliding the metal latch home as he did so. A final glimpse told him that the draconian had either flown or jumped over Groag's body and was charging toward the doors, aiming to burst them by sheer force.

  The doors buckled five inches, and the latch cracked from the force of the blow. The thunderous noise sounded like a bell throughout Flotsam, rousing more than a few people from their sleep and summoning the guards who had not already been alerted by the strange display of lights inside the manor house. Now many stood outside, holding their symbols and wondering what manner of beast the Holy Hopsloth and his faithful minion were battling. The guards who did know were of course attempting to book passage on the next boat out of port.

  Inside the manor, the door rocked again with a hollow boom, and the hinges on each side began to pull from the frame. At any moment, Toede knew, the draconian would reach the end of his unliving tether and explode in a burst of eldritch fire. And it did not look like the door would hold long enough to shield Toede from the humongous blast.

  Toede looked around the abattoir of Gildentongue's lair. Nothing presented itself as a tool, a weapon, or a way out. The windows were tightly shuttered, and there was no egress other than…

  The pit that yawned at his feet. Hopsloth's pool. Toede knew that it would be the equivalent of jumping into a giant spittoon.

  The door boomed a third time, bursting off its hinges.

  with pieces flying to the far corners of the room. Gilden-tongue's animated corpse strode, like a hot green bonfire, into the audience hall, blistering the paint from the walls. Toede jumped a foot into the air and felt the wave of heat push him backward and down into the foul blackness of Hopsloth's lair.

  He was halfway to the water when Gildentongue detonated in a flash of light, like a faulty skyrocket. Toede saw his own shadow framed against the water, then he was slammed into the pool with the force of the explosion.

  The soupy, almost solid water of Hopsloth's pool forced itself into Toede's eyes, mouth, and nostrils, and for a moment the highmaster feared he was covered with burning oil. No, he was merely immersed in the sludge. A great shape moved beneath him and nosed him to the surface. Gasping, Toede broke the surface of the water, multicolored sparks dancing in front of his eyes.

  Above him, the manor house was burning. The pool was lit with a red glow. Bits of bodies and other, less pleasant material floated in the water.

  Toede struggled to paddle a few yards, then felt firm earth beneath him. He pulled himself up on the shore, the air already excruciatingly hot from the billowing flames above.

  Gagging for breath, Toede saw he was being watched from the water. A great hillock of a frog, its vestigial wings hanging uselessly at its sides, sat, its lower body submerged in the pool. The light from the flames danced over its sickly yellow flesh, giving it a macabre appearance.

  "Hopsloth," said Toede with a weary smile, "I knew you wouldn't let me drown. Let's get out of here."

  But the amphidragon just sat there, regarding its long-lost hobgoblin master.

  "Come on, you misbegotten dragon-spawn, we have to leave before the roof caves in on us." Toede tried to rise, but found that his arms no longer bent in the proper direction. He was sore, weary, barely alive.

  The amphidragon remained inert, then belched out a single word. "Why?"

  Toede shook his head. "You talk?" he said, wondering if the force of the aurak-blast had driven him to delusions.

  "Sometimes," came the belch. "Why?"

  "I was…" gasped Toede. "I was told I would be made a noble. After I died. The first time. Gildentongue didn't agree."

  "So you… killed him," the amphidragon croaked. "Burning… my… house."

  "Our house! And he tried to kill me!" shouted Toede, his voice ragged from the heat. "He sent an assassin after me."

  "Not him," croaked Hopsloth. "I… sent one… to kill… you."

  Toede blinked the filth from his eyes. "Hopsloth?" he said. "But you're my friend."

  "No friend. You live. I'm a… mount," croaked Hopsloth in an almost-sneer, his mouth opening between the grunting bellows, showing a slimy line of teeth. "You die… I'm a god." Hopsloth gave a creaking laugh. "Which… would… you… choose?"

  Toede tried to scuttle backward, but his legs did not seem to be functioning well either. "I was supposed to be a noble!" he whined, almost as a plea.

  "I knight you… Lord Toede," boomed Hopsloth, his tongue snaking out and striking Toede in the chest. Before the hobgoblin could protest or even scream, the amphidragon had pulled the highmaster fully into his gullet. Toede felt the darkness enfold him in a single, sharp, exquisite pain as his head bent backward off his neck.

  "Misbegotten… indeed," muttered Hopsloth, sinking slowly into his pool, seeking the coolest, deepest spot while the fire raged over his head.

  Interlude

  In which we take advantage of Our Protagonist's current deceased status to check in with those who made a wager in lands far from our own.

  Meanwhile (if that word has meaning in a place of eternal torment), a pair of winged, lizardlike figures discussed Toede's situation. They lounged comfortably on the Castellan's stairs of smoking coal, leading downward to the crypts. The owner of said crypts sat on those steps and growled in disapproval, and if there were betting slips in the Abyss, they would have been shredded and discarded in front of him. His taller companion smiled broadly over a steaming gold cup of reddish ichor.

  "Not much of an experiment," sniffed the Castellan of the Condemned after a time.

  "A failure, I'll grant you that," replied the Abbot of Misrule, draining the last of his saint's blood. "And not even a noble failure, if you'll excuse the pun."

  The tall one motioned to the sky with the cup, as if offering the heavens a toast. "Look. She's back."

  A crimson blur streaked across the stygian blackness above them. The Castellan shrunk back slightly against the wall, but the Abbot just squinted at the quickly moving form of the hell-maiden. She cut through the stagnant air like a knife, leaving twin tornadoes of black fog in her wake. Her armor still gleamed and looked newly polished, and her ebony blade rested sheathed in her belt.

  "It's Judith, all right," confirmed the Abbot, "and she's caught her prey."

  Indeed, the enforcer of justice in the Abyss carried the inert form of a warrior in her sinewy arms. Shards of the warrior's armor fell away from his body like strips of torn paper, revealing a blood-crossed, pulpy mass of ripped flesh.

  Head dangling at an odd angle, the paladin (for it had to be he) made no move to resist Judith's handling.

  "Is he dead?" ventured the Castellan.

  "Care to bet that he's not?" replied the taller abishai, smiling.

  "How would you prove it one way or another?" said the shorter one, warily.

  The Abbot of Misrule nodded aloft. "By how she disposes of the prize. If she just dumps it, or consumes it in flight, it's dead. If she slams it into the ground, that's a coup de grace, a killing blow."

  "Another cup of saint's blood?" asked the Castellan.

  "Agreed. And prepare to pay off," warned the Abbot. "Look."

  Judith swept in low over the ground, and both abishai got a good l
ook at her face-a face locked in intense fury. She passed within a hundred paces of them, but would not have noticed the malingering fiends even if they had feathery wings and aureoles.

  Then she arced upward, sharply, at a right angle to the ground. The Castellan groaned as the Abbot chuckled. Both knew what was to come next.

  At a height of about a hundred feet, Judith flipped over and raised the paladin's body over her head. At the apex of her upward arc, she flung him down, overhand, onto the blasted terrain below.

  There was time for a long, very human scream, then the ground shook.

  "Well, that was nice," said the Abbot, tapping his now empty goblet. "Care to make it double or nothing on how big of a crater he made?"

  The Castellan's grumbling reply was below the level of even his companion's sensitive ears. He stomped down to the crypt; the Abbot sauntered down after him.

  "And speaking of wagers…" The taller creature grinned. "I believe we need to settle that previous one as well. Toede could not prove his nobility, as you had hoped, so I win that as well. Just leave your keys to the crypt on your way out.

  The Castellan paused from rattling his soul-bottles and held up a taloned paw. "Hold, now. If we don't learn anything definite from an experiment, then we might as well call it a draw."

  "Experiment?" The Abbot smiled. "And here I thought this was simply a bet."

  The Castellan ignored his companion. "We could make a case that, by calling the draconian's attention to himself, Toede saved hjs companion Groag from certain death."

  The Abbot snorted rudely. "Or that he was hoping the draconian's fiery form would explode upon striking the cold iron door. Objection overruled. Leave the keys by the door."

  "He did save his companion a few other times," added the Castellan.

  "Usually for his own self-interest. Besides, that's loyalty, not nobility," replied the taller abishai, "and is beyond the purview of this discussion. At no point did anyone, even his erstwhile companion, recognize the slightest inherent spark of nobility within the subject's breast. And before you mention Hopsloth, you know he was being ironic, or as close to ironic as something like that creature can be. Indeed, if anything, Toede further enhanced his evil reputation by this, er, second coming."