Lord Toede v-5

by Jeff Grubb

  Actually Toede was hoping exactly that, but additionally hoped that the wizards Charka and his people had encountered were all of the necromancer class: powerful figures best seen at a distance, and not meddled with unless one was tired of living. Toede certainly looked pleased by the result so far; he was fighting to keep the smile from his sallow face.

  "Defeat juju and live," said Toede. "Fail and be cursed. You have until dawn."

  Charka blinked the sparks out of his eyes and picked up the small ball, apparently curious that something so bright could be so heavy. He closed his fist around it. The light seeped between his taloned fingers and gave his fur a soft glow. He tightened his grip, and the light was extinguished.

  Charka smiled and relaxed. As soon as he opened his fist, the light resumed, leaking out through the gaps between his fingers. Charka growled and gripped the stone harder. Again, the light was extinguished, only to return as bright as before. A third time Charka tried to crush the stone, but to no effect.

  Charka barked something in swamp-talk to the other gnolls. Two of them bustled away. He tried to squeeze the stone into submission with both hands, but with the same result. Toede was obviously enjoying himself. "King of Little Dry Frogs explain curse to Charka."

  Toede did so, as Charka strained with the magically lit stone and the other gnolls watched. Toede's description was detailed, graphic, and delivered entirely in the pidgin language Charka could understand.

  As could a few of the other gnolls, for Groag could see their faces blanch in the cursed light. As for Groag, he had no problem with the flesh melted off the bones part, but the threat of live boring beetles being shoved under the fingernails was a bit much even for him.

  The two gnolls who left earlier returned with a bucket made of lashed leather, filled with swamp water. Charka plunged the lighted stone into the water and was rewarded for his trouble with wet fur along both arms and a pleasant light-show across the bare trees as the light shone through the ripples of the water's surface.

  Charka cursed, or at least Groag thought it a curse, for it was long and bitter in nature. One of the other gnolls strode up to Charka, babbling something else in swamp-talk. Charka snarled back. An argument ensued that was ended only by Charka backhanding the babbling gnoll. The other gnoll retreated, his ears flat and head slunk low. Charka snarled, an apparent challenge. None of the other gnolls responded. Charka set the magically lit stone on the ground and began pounding it with a rock.

  At first all Charka did was pound the sphere into the ground. Then the chieftain placed it on another rock and tried crushing it between two stones. Then another attempt, hammering at it with his morning star, bringing the heavy iron head down on the rock.

  As Charka hammered, light danced beneath the denuded oak, highlighting the surrounding trees; the gnolls, looking more uncomfortable by the moment; Toede, as motionless as a carved figure on his horse; and an increasingly beaten and dejected Charka. Long ropes of saliva were dripping from the gnoll's wolflike mouth, and the muscles of his face and neck were tight with strain.

  Groag stood up then. Neither of his guardian gnolls were paying attention. He began edging around the tree, ready to bolt any moment. He was ignored. The sky was already beginning to lighten, turning that slate-gray shade that preceded the dawn.

  Charka pounded until he dropped his morning star in disgust, panting heavily. The sphere was now more of an ellipsoid, but all the gnoll's activity had not diminished the radiance of it in the least.

  Toede shifted atop his horse. "I see Charka has failed.

  Nice knowing you, Charka. Good-bye!"

  With that, Toede began to swing his mount around. Groag thought Toede was bluffing, but faded deeper into the brushy shadows anyway, just in case.

  Charka turned to Toede. "Wait!" panted the large gnoll.

  Toede stopped, turned halfway on his horse. "Yes?" Toede smiled.

  Charka fumed for a moment. "Charka kill Boils Flesh anyway. Kill many wizards."

  Toede leaned back and laughed, as Groag pulled himself deeper into the brush. "Charka cannot defeat wizard's toy? What chance has Charka to defeat wizard?"

  Charka bit on the air for a moment, and Toede turned back to leave. "Wait!"

  Toede smiled again. "Yes?"

  Charka said, "Charka still has hostage."

  Toede said pleasantly, "Charka has no hostage."

  At that moment Groag's heart skipped a beat, as the collected gnolls suddenly realized there was an empty spot where Groag had been. There was consternation among the gnolls, as none had noticed his disappearance.

  Several of them moved toward the brush, looking for Groag. Toede held up a pudgy hand. "Don't bother," he said. "Powerful juju chief."

  "Wait!" said Charka, even though Toede had not turned to go again. The gnoll chief shook as though he were about to explode into pieces. Then quietly he reminded Toede, "Charka save King of Little Dry Frogs. Save life. King of Little Dry Frogs owes Charka."

  "Ah," said Toede. "Gratitude." He paused a beat and smiled. "Thank you, Charka. Good-bye now." He turned to leave.

  Charka strode around to the front of the horse, about four gnoll-strides. The gnoll chieftain stepped forward, hands spread wide. "Charka take people back to swamp."

  Toede shrugged. "Charka still cursed."

  Charka fumed. Finally he said, "How Charka appease Great Juju Chief Boils Flesh?"

  "Charka sorry?" said Toede.

  There was a mutter from the massive gnoll. Groag thought the creature responded, "Charka sorry."

  The two talked for a moment. Then Charka ran to retrieve the magically lit stone and the box and handed them back to the hobgoblin. Then the two talked for another moment. Charka began bellowing orders. The gnolls, all thirty of them, faded into the trees on all sides. Toede then rode southward, Groag's horse tied to his, Charka at his side.

  Groag was abandoned. Not an abnormal situation, all in all, he thought, pulling himself from the briars. Toede regularly abandoned people, though usually through the means of one or the other dying.

  Groag thought of heading north, back to Flotsam, but two things stood in his way. First, he wanted to make sure the scholars were safe, and that Toede had not betrayed them. And second, he had not expected Toede to return at all. Honoring any obligation was most unToedelike. It should have made Groag feel relieved, that his faith in the former highmaster was somehow justified.

  Instead, it just increased the feeling of dread in his stomach, that when the end came, it would be all the worse.

  Sighing, Groag set out southward toward the camp as the first rays of dawn set the surviving autumn leaves on fire.

  Chapter 15

  In which Our Protagonist reaps the fruits of his labor, considers his lot in life, and receives a vision of greater things to come.

  By midmorning the scholars' camp was a flurry of activity, none of which was directly connected to imminent escape. Various librarians were leaping around the fallen pillars, making last-minute notes. A few of "the boys" were digging trenches, into which Bunniswot would dump badly wrapped satchels of notes (and in one case, an overloaded leather trunk in one grave-deep trench) for "later recovery." (Of course, Bunniswot made a nasty giggle when he said this). Renders scurried around, trying to make a map of where everything was buried. No one had taken down any of the tents, nor packed any personal effects. And of course, breakfast had been skipped by mutual agreement considering the cook had already been presumably eaten by the gnolls.

  So it was a surprise when, about three hours after dawn, the gnolls finally appeared. A surprise not in that their arrival came later than expected, but in that they did not arrive screaming and seeking to use their spears for impromptu exploratory surgery. Instead, only one gnoll appeared, accompanying Toede, who was still mounted on one of the horses and dressed in Bunniswot's dressing gown. The gnoll was large even by gnoll standards, and dressed in a manner that Renders could immediately trace to preCataclysm humanoid war cults.


  The two stood there, hobgoblin and gnoll, immobile, until one by one the scholars became aware of their presence. Those involved in arguments left in midword, those making stone rubbings in midrub, and those making maps in midcartographical flourish. Bunniswot was patting down the last of his buried treasure and notes with a shovel. When he looked up, saw everyone else gazing elsewhere, he joined the silent tableaux of scholars staring at the strange pair of humanoids.

  Renders set his bone pen aside and walked toward the pair. The old scholar was dressed in white and cream, as was his personal preference, and the sun bounced beams off his shining form. He stopped all of five paces away from the gnoll and hobgoblin, noting that the gnoll chieftain looked even taller close up.

  The gnoll chieftain gestured imperiously. Two large gnolls strode out of the brush, each carrying the carcass of a freshly slain boar. Then two more, carrying baskets of tubers, currants, and wild grapes. Then another pair, carrying wooden platters made of sassafras bark, and heavily laden with chestnuts, walnuts, and hickory nuts. Then another pair, one with a clutch of catfish strung through the gills on a leather thong, the other with a similar string of mountain trout. Then a gnoll with a basket of freshwater eels, and lastly one with a hemp basket of live crawfish, still skittering slowly over each other.

  The tall gnoll slapped his chest and cried, "Charka!"

  Toede translated. "Charka begs forgiveness of the mighty wizards and offers these gifts in apology."

  Renders made to hold out his hand, but Toede shot him a quick, nasty look. Instead, the scholar placed it over his heart and proclaimed solemnly, "Renders."

  The gnolls bowed. "Great Chief Boils Flesh."

  Renders arched an eyebrow at Toede. "Ah. Ah. Boils flesh?"

  "He believes you and yours to excel in culinary abilities," Toede put in.

  Renders looked cross for the first time. "Whatever gave him that accursed idea?"

  "Hur?" said Charka.

  "Great Chief pleased for now. Accepts gifts. Warns Charka's people to behave or curse returns." To Renders, Toede added quickly, "Fine language is not their forte. Just leave out anything that sounds as if it would stump a gully dwarf, and you'll be fine."

  "But I think we should inform him that I am not such a great cook." Renders shook his head, then smiled pleasantly at the curious look he received from the gnoll.

  "Some things get misunderstood in translation." Toede shrugged. "And note that this one can break you up into small pieces if he ever believes you not to be a great wizard and chef."

  "Ah," said Renders. "Ah. Well then." To the gnoll Renders spread his hands out, imitating Toede. "Great Chief Boils Flesh thanks Charka for gifts. Build fire, have mighty feast!"

  Then he turned to the collected scholars, who were observing the entire business. "Let's get with the program, gentlemen," Renders hissed, clapping his hands.

  Fortunately for all, by the time the fire had been sufficiently banked to a good bed of coals, and the pots (still dirty from the previous day) sufficiently graveled and washed, Groag made his return, footsore and cranky. He found Charka, Toede, and Renders engaged in lively debate with a few of the gnolls in the main pavilion, Bunniswot cursing and excavating a trench furiously, and the remaining gnolls seated at the southern perimeter of the camp. A couple of Renders's "boys" were arguing about how to best boil a boar.

  Groag waded in to save the "boys" from culinary disaster. In short order, the boars were properly skinned, the nuts shucked, the fish deboned, and the grapes and currants properly rinsed. A pot bubbled as the crawfish boiled, turning a brilliant shade of blue.

  After about an hour, Toede broke away from the pavilion group and padded down to the cooking fire, where Groag was still puffing and shouting. From what Toede had learned of swamp-gnoll rituals, as long as dinner wasn't burned too badly, the visitors would be happy. Cooked food was still a novelty, apparently, in the swamp.

  "Nice of you to show up at last," said Toede.

  Groag wheeled and shot a nasty look at the former highmaster. "I've nothing to say to you," he said, turning back to tending the impromptu boar-spit that had been rigged up for the occasion.

  Toede rocked back on his heels slightly. "That's no attitude to take," he sputtered, "after all I've done for you!'

  "All you've done?" Groag hissed. The "boys" looked up from their tasks, but none of the gnolls seemed to notice, or care. "Every time…" Groag continued, "every time I hook up with you, something horribly unpleasant happens. Dragons. Assassins. Exploding draconians. And this time, you left me hostage and ran off."

  "I came back," Toede hissed, "and saved Bunniswot and Renders and all the rest of the mentally impaired."

  "And that worries me even more," said Groag. "Why? You always have a scheme, some angle on things. What is it? Are you after Renders for money, or what?"

  Toede shoved a hand in his pocket, stroking the large gem that Renders had given him in payment. He flinched from its warmth, as if the stone had been recently pulled from the fire. "I told you," he said firmly, "I'm trying to live in a noble manner. I'm surprised that you of all people have trouble believing that."

  "I have trouble believing it because I know you," grumbled Groag. "I'll be watching you, just keep that in mind.

  Now sod off, I'm cooking dinner." With that, Groag turned his back on Toede.

  Toede fumed, briefly considering hobgoblicide. However, they did need Groag to cook. And the fact was that Groag was probably right. He did know Toede too well, and he probably ought to be worried.

  So instead of braining his companion, Toede stomped back to the white fabric pavilion, where Renders was translating the War of the Lance into short, pidgin common. "Then Great Flower-Warrior Heavy-Rain Shining-Sword swung Dragonlance, and kill dragon! But dragon kill Heavy-Rain, too!" said Renders. Charka and the gnolls present nodded.

  Toede had discovered that the common ground between scholar and gnoll was extremely limited, primarily to war stories and alcohol, and not having much of the latter, he had steered the socializing toward the chronicles. As long as Renders was holding their attention, there seemed little danger of flare-ups between the two groups.

  Toede himself had been mentioned in passing, early on, though not by name (thank the Dark Lady) as an "Evil Slave-keeper, Master of Few."

  "Master of Few caught the Companions and did not know who they were," Renders had explained, "so Master of Few put them in a cage-wagon. Master of Few was to take them to his master, Worm-Guts"-or at least that was how Verminaard was translated, to Toede's amusement-"but the great wizard Doesn't-Bubble and the elves helped them escape. The cage-wagon was burned, and Master of Few fled into the night."

  He had met these "Heroes of the Lance" early on, before anyone knew anything about them. And they had proceeded to escape from under his very nose-not once, but repeatedly. Not the brightest spot on his resume, Toede thought, reflecting on how far he had advanced since those days.

  If he had advanced at all, he fumed. Groag didn't seem to think so, but then that was the problem with longtime acquaintances. They seemed to only see the part of you that they knew from before, and ignored the fact that you might have developed into a better being over time.

  In the old days, back when Toede ruled Flotsam, he could have had Groag killed. It seemed that Groag was developing a spine. He, too, was changing. Adapting.

  Well, Toede could change just as much. He was quite proud of his newfound nobility. True, he had been doubtful, even challenging the fates, but once he made up his mind, he had stuck to his choices. He saved Groag, saved the scholars, and saved himself. And had got a ready supply of good food in the process.

  So why did he feel displeased with the entire turn of events? Not just Groag, but the fact that both Renders and Charka failed to recognize his heroic efforts. The gem Renders had given him was a nice touch, but instead of making him feel as though he had been rewarded, he felt as though he had been cheapened, almost insulted.

  Apparently the
re was more to this nobility thing than just acting in a self-destructive manner.

  Was all nobility just a scam, then, an excuse to advance one's own case and position, and then have people thank you for it? That didn't seem right, from what he knew of the noble heroes Renders was babbling on about. If anything, the Dragonlance heroes seemed to settle for far less than their actions had earned them, but perhaps that was only to gain some greater advantage later on. His reward for doing the "right and noble" thing was more tangible: the feast.

  It was finally ready by midafternoon, and turned out to rival the best of the halls of the Silvanesti, though served on cruder dishware than elves would ever tolerate. Groag proved to be an expert chef once given proper ingredients, and the boar had been roasted to the point where the meat fell off at a touch and melted on the tongue. It had been seasoned in a gravy with herbs and nuts. Scholar, gnoll, and hobgoblin ate until they could eat no more, and afterward Groag threw spiced potatoes wrapped in wet burlap onto the coals to cook for dessert, while Renders continued the tales from the War of Lance for the entire assemblage.

  "And so our heroes passed through this very land, on the way to the town of Floating Junk. And there the Master of Few reigned, but he was so afraid of the heroes that he hid from them, and let the Dragon Highlord Small-Cat-Crown seek them out…"

  "I wasn't hiding," muttered Toede, "I was busy." He wandered a little way off from the main group, sated but far from satisfied. The boar was the first good meal in how many months? Over a year, really, unless he counted the goose sandwiches the kender girl had packed. And that had been six months ago.

  The former Evil Slaver, former Master of Few, former Highmaster of Flotsam, perhaps future Lord of some place unknown and unrevealed, sat at the base of a tilted pillar and tried to sort out the various conflicting feelings that jousted in his head and heart. Or at least tried to, for the combination of a full belly and over a day without sleep finally caught up with him, and within moments he was snoring softly.