by Jeff Grubb
The falls thundered into a quiet, wide pool of deep green. The sound of the two figures striking the water was lost, and the ripple of their splash erased by the time those ripples reached the shore.
Some time later, the two hobgoblins crawled onshore, still chained together and making small motions with their arms and legs. Both were bloody and battered, but still breathing. Water streamed from Toede's nostrils as Groag panted and cursed between openmouthed gulps of air.
"We're bloody doomed," Groag panted. "We can't run. We can barely walk. Every kender in the countryside is going to want our backsides for breakfast, and I can't say I blame them. That was the kender leader's daughter you attacked, and she's going to see us put up on spikes once the guard tells her it wasn't our intent to rescue her, and we can't move with all this iron, and why are you smiling that damned smile?"
Indeed, throughout Groag's tirade, the hobgoblin high-master had been smiling beatifically, a canary-digesting feline sort of look. After Groag shouted at him, he paused a beat, then stuck out his tongue.
Resting on that pale pink expanse was an iron key, until recently worn around the neck of Taywin Kroninsdau.
Toede held the key up to the sun and laughed wearily. "I hope you don't feel like resting," he said. "I want to be in Flotsam by nightfall."
Chapter 4
In which Our Protagonist discovers that time has not stood still for him in his hometown, and fully realizes his own mortality, the fickle nature of those who are ruled, and the nature of his opposition.
In actuality, it took three days to reach Flotsam, caused first by a miscalculation on Groag's part as to direction, and second by a necessary evasion of a kender hunting party. The latter was seen at a distance, armed with spears and accompanied by their golden and black hunting hounds. Toede recognized neither kender nor dogs, but thought it the better part of valor to evade them.
The fact of the matter was, had the hobgoblins headed in the right direction at the outset, the kender, who set out for Flotsam immediately, would have caught up with their quarry. But since Toede and Groag got slightly mislaid, the kender patrols made it to Flotsam and back before Toede and Groag even neared the vicinity.
The second night was spent in an abandoned cottage that had not seen human habitation since before the War of the Lance. There was no food other than the lizards that Groag rousted from beneath the collapsed bed. There were a few long human-sized cloaks, easily altered by the rusted but serviceable knives abandoned in a stuck drawer. Toede had seen, lived through, and dealt out worse during the war.
But Toede could not sleep, for Groag snored a saw-touched rhapsody across from him. He considered smothering him with a pillow, but Groag's likely uses in the future stayed his hand.
Also, there were no pillows in the cottage.
The long hike had given him a chance to think about what Groag had said. For six months Toede had been gone. His armor and clothing, while beaten and singed, neither wore nor smelled like he had been wearing them for six months. Perhaps he had been dead. Or put into cold storage for six months, which was one and the same for all intents and purposes. But how-and to what end?
To return and live like a noble. Clouds passed over the wafer-thin sliver of Lunitari, and Toede thought of the shadowy giants and the promise they had made to him in his dreams. He would be treated like a noble. Well, obviously not at the moment, in the tumbledown cottage, but once they reached civilization. Once they reached Flotsam.
After they reached Flotsam, then what? Obviously, when confronted with a highmaster in the flesh, Gilden-tongue would have to step down. Although since Toede wasn't truly a high lord, officially recognized as such, there might be question of his right to rule. The perils that a lack of nobility caused were obvious to the hobgoblin.
Perhaps he would have to call in his favors with the true highlords, and the dragonarmy itself, still billeted in the northern half of the city.
Ah, but Gildentongue always had a way with the great reptiles, being draconian himself. There might have to be a few bloody discussions in the barracks, but in the end, Toede had a dragon (of sorts) in Hopsloth, and Gildentongue would be vanquished.
Perhaps after all this, the highlords would grant him a real, permanent title, and award him Flotsam as his enfiefment. His own duchy. Perhaps that's what the dream meant.
Duchy of Flotsam. Duke of Flotsam. Had a nice ring to it, he thought, leaning against the windowsill.
He was still writing his acceptance speech and ordering his first series of retributive executions when Groag shook him awake. Dawn had broken, and far in the distance, there were dogs baying.
Now was the time to move on, Toede thought, to claim his rightful throne.
The land broadened quickly into the low rolling hills that surrounded Flotsam, ending finally in the bay upon which the city was built. It was, at last, territory familiar to Toede. They approached from the southeast, trundling over the low hills that flanked the city on that side. The hills had mostly been denuded, noted Toede, and rich fields of barley and wheat and plots of vegetables had replaced the wildlife and underbrush. The fields were brown earth sprinkled with the first tufts of green from the spring. When he had last ridden through the land, the grain had been a rich harvest gold, and the trees were heavy with fruit. It seemed a lifetime ago. As they topped the last low rise overlooking the city, Toede wondered what else had changed.
The pair of footsore travelers stopped and regarded Flotsam, sprawled out before them like a drunkard curled on the pavement. A low miasma hung over the city-the sum of collected exhalations, smokes, fumes, and fires of the inhabitants that even the steady breeze off Blood Bay could do nothing to diminish. The subtle stench of pirates, merchants, craftsmen, middlemen, travelers, adventurers, soldiers, entertainers, barbarians, and priests tickled his nostrils even at this distance.
Toede let out a contented sigh. Nothing had changed after all. Except…
"Groag," said the highmaster with a frown, "who decided to repair the wall?"
Indeed, the city wall, more of a ten-foot-high apology to advancing armies than any real impediment to a concentrated attack, had been restored. The wall ran along on its original foundation, forming a long, looping enclosure that cradled the harbor from southern edge to northern tip. The Southwest Gate was before them, framed by thirty-foot towers. A small trickle of wagons lined up as they passed by the guards. Toede squinted and could see similar traffic snags at the Southeast Gate on his right and the North Gate across the way.
"Uh, Gildentongue," mewled his companion, figuring (correctly) that this was a proper answer for any mischief committed in Toede's absence.
"Hmpf," snorted the highmaster. "If Gildentongue is really in charge, it shows what he knows. Why bother with walls when you have a wing of dragons camped out within your city? Typical Draconian overkill. No sense of subtlety in the least."
"Well, now that you mention it…" ventured Groag in his meekest voice.
Toede flexed an eyebrow, his time-honored method of recognizing a flunky about to deliver bad news. Groag kept his eyes focused on a spot two inches in front of Toede's boots.
"I had heard from Miss Taywin-Kronin's daughter- that the dragonarmy had… uh… relocated. Up the Rugged Coast and closer to the ogre territories. Better recruits and all was what they said, but the kender laughed and elbowed each other in the ribs, and I guessed it was too difficult to maintain the army inside the city walls. Rebels and sabotage and desertion and… all that."
The highmaster grumbled deeply, and Groag fell back two spaces.
The growl broke into discernible words. "Then what you're saying is that there is no dragonarmy in Flotsam?"
Groag nodded, then he gave a most irritating, almost kenderish shrug of his shoulders, and added, "That's what I heard, at least."
"So much for Plan A," muttered Toede. Louder, to Groag, he said, "Is there anything else that you should tell me about my domain that I don't already know?"
A
gain the shrug. "I have been held by the kender for some time now, Highmaster," said Groag. "I only heard about the dragonarmy changing its base because the kender themselves threw a great party when it happened. Seems they felt responsible for the move. I remember the feast-there were twelve geese to be stuffed, and two full stags…"
Toede waved the rendition of the menu aside. "The barracks are empty, then?"
"Well, they're probably used for warehouses and things like that."
"But the rest of the city is still as it was. No temples to Habbakuk or Mishakal? No gods or kindly-but-powerful wizards taking up residence within earshot of the gates?"
Groag looked up, hurt. "Other than some new cult-thingie the kender mentioned Gildentongue is wrapped up in, no. I mean, I don't think so," he said, stressing the word 'think' as if it implied true cogitation and analysis.
"And my own luxurious manor house still stands?"
"I suppose so," muttered Groag.
"And the rock upon which it rests has not been washed out to sea?"
Groag shot back, "I do not know, O Wise Highmaster. Perhaps the next time I get captured, I'll arrange in advance for a bard to visit with the current claque?" Groag's face tensed for a moment, then returned to its normal befuddled state. "I mean… Milord, you must understand if I am not fully up to date."
Toede smiled, and for once it was not a wicked smile. It was the first indication of spine Groag had shown since Toede encountered him in the kender encampment. Toede was afraid his companion had been swept away by a world of goose-cooking and poetry. Groag seemed to be regaining his old manner, now that he was restored to basking in Toede's illustrious presence.
Well enough. If Gildentongue proved unwilling to step aside, Toede might need someone with the fortitude to jam a knife between the draconian's ribs. At the moment, until he could gauge his own popular support, Toede had an army of one, and that one-Groag-had to suit.
Groag returned the smile uneasily, as if he were unsure whether the highmaster was laughing with him or at him. When no immediate rebuff came from his superior, Groag relaxed.
Toede looked out at his city, still stench-ridden but wrapped behind a new cloak of stone. Even so, he was home.
"Well, there's nothing for it, then," he said. "Let's go tell Gildentongue that his master has returned."
Wrapped about a deep-water harbor on the western shore of Blood Bay, Flotsam was so named for its red-tinged beaches and proximity to the larger (and more crimson-tinged) Blood Sea. The original city was built from the ruins of Istar (and other pre-Cataclysm sites now covered by the scarlet ocean) that had washed up on the new shoreline. The city's name reflected both the original junk used to make the houses and the nature of its population: a collection of drifters, refugees, would-be warriors, fleeing fighters, leaderless mercenaries, merchants, corsairs, and all manner of middlemen.
The great majority of the city evinced a hodgepodge of styles slapped together with whatever construction supplies were available at the moment. The most noticeable exception was the eastern part of the town, where a rugged headland jutted into the sea, forming the safe barrier of Flotsam Harbor. Here on "The Rock" were the most beautiful homes, the finest inns, the best taverns, and of course, raised just a little above all the others, the resplendent manor of Highmaster Toede himself.
During the war Flotsam had proved a haven for rebels and dragon highlords alike, under the supposedly ever-watchful eye of Highmaster Toede. Until the day of his disastrous hunt, Toede had ruled with a combination of carrot and stick, offering benefits to those who abided by his rule of law, and punishment to those who did not. All the players quickly learned what could and could not be done within Toede's city. Trade caravans from the inland territories made Flotsam their terminus for Blood Sea cities, and the city attracted those men and women looking for easy coins. Toede's court was full of them: sycophants and inventors and adventurers with all manner of honeyed words and magical maps and wonderful ideas.
In short, individuals who made Groag look like a pillar of wisdom and strength.
Except Gildentongue. He had always been a tricky one, Toede reflected, even then. Always dealing with the dragonarmies and the highlords. Always playing politics. And subtle, always subtle, such that Toede could never pin anything underhanded or treacherous on him. Toede mused about how Gildentongue ought to resign-on bended knee or with a flurry of blades.
The surrender approach would be much preferred, he reflected. He pictured himself striding into his reception hall, with Gildentongue sitting there, signing some meaningless proclamation. The pen would fall like a lead weight from Gildentongue's hand, and the draconian's scaled face would react first with shock, then anger as the consequences of his misrule sank into his reptilian brain. Reaching for a handy halberd and uttering a great curse, Toede's unworthy successor might try to charge him. Gildentongue would take all of three steps before he was cut down by the loyal guardsmen, who would then drop as one on bended knee before their master: Toede, Earl of Flotsam.
No, that's not right, thought Toede. Gildentongue should by rights be kept alive-if barely. Gildentongue was of the Aurak race, and dying draconians had a nasty habit of exploding. Yes, Gildentongue would be allowed to survive, and Toede would order the manor guards to perform a few experiments on the traitorous and falsehearted courtier. And chefs. Let's not forget the manor chefs.
Toede giggled at the thought. Groag shot him a sharp look, but seeing that the highmaster's eyes were not entirely focused, decided he was not the subject of Toede's musing. The highmaster sighed with relief as they passed the short line of caravan wagons awaiting inspection and entry to the city of Flotsam.
Or tried to, at least. The guards were letting foot traffic pass unimpeded through a smaller door alongside the main gate. When the two hobgoblins tried to enter, however, each of the flanking guards dropped his spear low, barring their path.
"And where are you going, Frog-face?" said the one on the right.
Toede looked up, surprised by this mode of address. The guard was human, of course, and had that gritty, unwashed nature that seemed an unwritten requisite for those humans in the service of Takhisis. Both the speaker and his companion were totally unfamiliar to Toede. Nothing unusual, since turnover was always high in the highmaster's service, but this one Toede would have remembered. The guard had a scar running down the front of his face, from above the right temple across the nose. The puckered line ended in an explosion of infected acne and scars on his left cheek. It looked as if someone had tried to carve a comet on his face. His eyes were cold and lusterless.
Toede returned the glare, feeling his own face flush with irritation. "I have business within," he said flatly, trying to brush aside the spears. The obstructing weapons held steady in front of him.
"Not here you don't, Hob-gob," snarled Comet-face.
"Since when is Flotsam a closed city?" Toede pulled himself up to his full height and tried to stare down the guard. In his full regalia, mounted on Hopsloth-back, and backed by a unit of handpicked warriors, he was usually effective. Backed only by Groag, and the pair of them dressed in ragged, badly cut cloaks, the effect was severely lessened.
"Only closed to your kind," snapped the guard. "Unless you got special permission, by the regent and the will of the Water Prophet." Toede noticed that the other guard, the silent one, touched a small disk hanging from his neck at the mention of the Water Prophet's name. "So sod off, Shorty."
"Excuse me a moment," said Toede to Comet-face. He wheeled about, looking for Groag. His companion had already fallen back a few paces. "Water Prophet? What is all this about?" hissed the highmaster.
"I don't know," said Groag, looking honestly confused. "I've been out of the swim for a few months, remember? Likely this Water Prophet is the cult-thingie the kender mentioned."
Toede turned back to the guard and saw that the spears had moved from blocking their entrance to pointing directly at his chest. Toede's eyes went to small slits, and he tou
ched the tip of the spear, showing little fear of the weapon. "It has been a long journey for me, human, and I'll be the first to admit I don't look my best at the moment, but do you have the slightest inkling in your crenelated brain whom you are speaking with?" He attempted to push the spear aside, but the weapon did not budge even a fraction of an inch.
Toede now scowled and locked eyes with Comet-face. "I am Highmaster Toede, Ruler of Flotsam and Master of the great Amphidragon Hopsloth! Let me pass, or I'll have you keelhauled beneath the docks!"
At last he got a reaction. The silent guard gave a sharp intake of breath and grabbed the little disk. Comet-face, on the other hand, brightened visibly at this revelation.
"Is that so," he replied, smiling. "Well, ain't that coincidental, since I'm really Sturm Brightblade. I just sent my armor out to be cleaned. Now get back to your lairs, Hob-gobs!"
Comet-face punctuated his sentence with a sharp jab of his spear. Toede backpedaled a few paces. Comet-face advanced again, spear lowered and shouting epithets. Toede heard faint footfalls behind him, growing softer by the second, and knew that his army of one was retreating. Summoning what dignity he could manage, Toede wheeled about, shouting, "I will remember you, when I drag you out for judgment!"
The only answer was laughter aimed at Toede's back.
Groag was waiting for him behind the last wagon, out of sight of the guards. "Some help you were," grumbled Toede.
"What now?" muttered Groag.
"We wait for nightfall, then you chew through the closed gates with your teeth," answered Toede. Groag looked pale, and Toede added, "That is a joke. We both know your head would be a much more efficient battering ram. Lef s try another entrance."
It was about a half mile to the Southeast Gate, and the pair took a wide swing that cut across a number of fields. To the north, the wall continued in an unbroken line, and even Toede had to admit that Gildentongue had done a fair job mobilizing the local population to repair the old structure.