by Jeff Grubb
Of course Toede was not listening to his mind at the moment, or his stomach or any other organ that was not directly involved with getting him far from this snarling beast (and it was snarling now, unrecognizable gnoll-curses as it half pulled, half waded its way to shore).
Toede slipped back a few more feet, then leaped for solid ground.
Or at least what he thought was solid ground, only a few feet from where he had stashed the club. And the ground was solid, as far as the weight of a small being walking around on it was concerned. Leaping from a tree four feet up in the air was another matter entirely.
The soil crumbled away, back into the mudhole, taking the highmaster with it. Toede bellowed as he fell forward. He felt his entire lower body slide into the dirty water.
It's only worse if you panic, his mind said, and was rewarded with a lively string of curses from the rest of Toede's body, which was flailing, reaching, and twisting in all directions at once to pull itself out of the muck, while only succeeding in driving more of itself deeper into the mire.
I don't know why I even try, sniped Toede's mind.
Toede reached out with one muddy arm for a handful of long grass attached to the (presumably) solid bank, only to be rewarded with the entire plant being pulled out by its roots. Toede cursed one more time as he felt the muck touch his lower lip.
Then a strong arm, its biceps as wide as a Toede-and-a-half, wrapped itself around him and lifted him bodily from the mire. The ebony mud clung to him for a moment, stretched, then abandoned the contest and returned to its sludge state.
As Toede felt himself lifted off the ground, his legs dangling uselessly below him, the world whirled around. Dirt stung his eyes, but when he blinked back the mud he realized he was firmly in the grip of an equally filthy gnoll.
He was spun around again, face-to-muzzle with the mongrel monster. Saliva was dripping down in long, ropey strands from its fang-ladened maw. Toede's arms were pinioned against his sides, and he could see the creature's chest heave as it breathed hard. Or laughed. The gnoll could very well be saying grace and Toede wouldn't
be the wiser. Or saying grace.
The maw opened in a mighty yawn, and Toede closed his eyes, ready for the next life, if there was one. At least it was quick, his mind noted astutely as the rest of his body told it to just shut up.
Chapter 11
In which Our Protagonist learns not to judge a book by its cover, which is all for the best since he will soon be in the company of individuals more scholarly than his present companion.
And then the gnoll licked Toede's forehead.
Toede squirmed, not only because the gnoll smelled of wet dog, but because its breath smelled of dead wet dog. In addition, Toede's face was one of the few areas that was not covered with slime. Until the gnoll licked it, that is.
It's either thanking me, thought Toede, or tasting me, deciding if I need a little salt.
Then the large humanoid set Toede on the ground and smiled at the small hobgoblin.
"Charka," it said, pounding its chest to indicate its identity, sending flecks of mud in all directions.
"Oh, you're very welcome," said Toede, angry and disappointed that his expected meal not only could talk, but had waded out of the mire with plenty of energy.
The two stood there for a moment, regarding one another. Then the gnoll struck its hairy chest again. "Charka!" it said.
"Right," snarled Toede. "It's not like this hasn't been riveting, but there are beetles out there I have to root around for."
The gndll repeated the motion a third time. "Charka!" it nearly shouted, pointing at the hobgoblin.
Toede sighed, and pointed at himself. "Toede," he said, then added, "Lord Toede."
The gnoll snapped its head back and howled in what Toede took to be a paroxysm of amusement. "Name means 'King of Little Dry Frogs,' " the creature said, smiling a wolfish grin (or close enough, from one with the head of hyena). Then, still chuckling, it sat down to unbind its feet.
It was only then that Toede noticed the lower extremities of the creature had been chained and weighted. A thick metal chain had been wrapped twice around the gnoll's ankles, and three suitably heavy morning stars had been threaded into the links.
The gnoll did not seem to be sufficiently depressed to be a suicide attempt, so Toede asked, "How did your predicament come about?"
The gnoll looked up at him with the look animals give humans when they are asked to explain gravity. "Hur?" said the gnoll.
"I was admiring your footwear," said Toede, "How were you fitted with such stylish fashion statements?"
The gnoll waved its massive hands. "Speak humanjab-ber too fast. Talk real."
Toede frowned, pointing at the chains. "How?" he asked in a loud voice.
"Ah," said the gnoll, pulling one of the morning stars free and tossing it on the dried ground. "Bartha. Chief Bartha. Hate Charka. Beat Charka. Chain Charka. Leave Charka in mud to die."
"And what could possess anyone to do this to such a charming and genteel creature?" asked Toede.
"Hur?"
"I said why?" repeated Toede.
"Bartha hate Charka," said the gnoll, pulling another morning star out from the tangled mass at his feet, and starting to work on the third.
Toede waited for a moment. Nothing else seemed forthcoming, so he prompted. "And this was because…?"
"Hut?"
"Why Bartha hate Charka?" Toede said, feeling his higher brain functions shutting down like street vendors in the path of a city patrol crackdown.
"Bartha hate Charka," said the gnoll.
"Well, that makes sense," added Toede.
"And Charka kill Bartha's brother," said the gnoll.
"Ah," encouraged Toede.
"And Charka kill Bartha's other brother," added the gnoll. "And Charka kill Bartha's mother."
"There's a pattern forming here," said Toede.
"And Charka kill Bartha's mother's brother," recounted the gnoll. "And Charka kill Bartha's mother's other brother," finished the gnoll, as the chains slipped away from its ankles. The gnoll stood and stretched. "So Bartha hate Charka. No good reason."
"Let me guess your next course of action," said Toede, smiling.
Puzzled, the gnoll looked at the hobgoblin.
"What Charka do next?" asked Toede.
The gnoll bared its teeth. "Charka kill Bartha."
"Never would have guessed," said Toede. Before the gnoll could add anything, Toede said, "Toede help Charka kill Bartha."
The gnoll looked at Toede for a moment, then tilted its head upward and howled. Toede waited for it to subside, but it did not, at least not immediately. Charka dropped to its knees and howled again, panting hard, clutching its sides as if to keep its lungs from exploding.
"It's not that funny," muttered Toede.
"King of Little Dry Frogs help Charka kill Bartha?" said the gnoll, then howled again. "Maybe King of Little Dry Frogs bite Bartha's feet? Or King of Little Dry Frogs run up and punch Bartha in knee? Maybe King of Little Dry Frogs yell at Bartha and Bartha curl up and die?" More howling.
"That's enough," said Toede and pointed a pudgy finger at the gnoll's chest (possible only now that the gnoll had dropped to its knees in amusement). "I saved Charka's carcass, remember?" he said. "Nice and noble thing to do, saving your life. What you do when someone saves your life?"
The gnoll looked puzzled, then a dawning light broke on its features. "Ah! Gratitude!"
"Something like that," asserted Toede, feeling his brain cells dying in droves with every passing moment.
The gnoll rose to its feet. It towered over the hobgoblin, holding out one beefy paw. "Thank you!" it said.
Toede reached out and took the gnoll's hand, which reached halfway up his own arm. The gnoll shook it sternly, once, then let go.
"Bye now," said Charka. The gnoll turned to go, picking up one of the morning stars as it lumbered to the edge of the swamp.
"Wait a minute," bellowed the hobgobl
in. "That's it?"
Charka looked back. "What it?"
Toede fumed. "That's all? I save your smelly hide and all you say is 'thank you'?"
The gnoll pursed its brow. " 'Thank you' not right humanjabber?"
Toede waved his hands. "Right humanjabber. But I help you, you help me." He spoke as slowly as he could bear, motioning with his hands.
"Help me how?" The gnoll's forehead furrowed more.
"Well, you could guide me out of the swamp," said Toede slowly.
The gnoll shook its head like a wet dog. "Bartha live in swamp. Charka go kill Bartha. Not go out of swamp. Bye now.
"Right," said Toede. "Well then, is Charka hungry?" That stopped the gnoll again. "Charka hungry." It nodded.
"So Charka go get food, no longer hungry," prompted Toede. "Then Charka kill Bartha."
The gnoll scratched itself again, then brightened and slapped its forehead. "Charka go hunting!" With that the creature started lumbering deeper into the swamp.
"Hey, wait for me!" said Toede, charging forward, but brought up short by the edge of the swamp itself. Gnolls seemed to know where the deep and muddy parts were, but that talent did not extend to hobgoblins. "Charka, I can't follow you! You have to come back!"
The gnoll was about fifty paces away, with the murky waters now rising to its hips, well above Toede's height. The massive gnoll turned and shouted back at Lord Toede, 'Thank you!" then continued to wade deeper into the swamp. "Bye now!"
Toede waved weakly. "Hurry back!" he muttered. Perhaps the gnoll knew what it was doing and would return with food. He wondered how long it would take something that big to flush out a boar or a brace of geese, and how much it would demand for itself. Toede sat down and waited.
And waited. The shadows grew long as the sun set over the western hillocks, lighting up the sky with long strands of crimson and magenta. Mosquitoes and biting flies came up in small hordes and buzzed about Toede, still encased in mud, sitting, with his knees drawn up, beneath one of the willows.
Lunitari rose, bathing the land in a more subtle, reddish hue. Nocturnal creatures began to stir, answering their own internal clockworks.
A ferret poked its thin, narrow nose out of its burrow beneath a large willow tree, sniffing the air for small insects, birds, or tiny, furry prey. It took only half a sniff before a set of pudgy hands closed around its neck and throttled the life out of it, then pummeled its form against the base of the tree until it was little more than a mess of bloody fur.
Toede popped the raw bits of ferret into his mouth, rolled the meat around his tongue, and spit out a thighbone. " 'Thank you/ " he mimicked in a mock-deep voice. " 'Bye now!'"
Toede swallowed and took another bite. "Nobility be damned," he muttered.
It took two more days of backtracking and weaving to get past the swamp. Finally the land began to rise steadily and larger birches appeared, their paper-thin white bark peeled away. The land was still wet but no longer sloppy-wet, and ferns were spread through the underbrush.
All of this was lost on Toede, who kept scanning the underbrush for the sight of anything that might be edible, or close enough to edible so as not to matter much. He had brought one of Charka's morning stars with him, and dragged it behind him, letting the hollow metal ball on the end clang musically against the occasional stone.
Toward the end of the second day, Toede began wondering why they put cities and towns so far apart, or if it was just a cruel twist of fate that sent him in the one direction where no civilization lay. The sun was setting and the bare trees were alight with a glorious evening radiance that was totally lost on the depressed highmaster.
It was then that Toede noticed another light, nearer to the ground and in front of a larger hill. Someone or something was in the area.
Toede's mood brightened as he moved cautiously toward the light that flickered and danced ahead of him. A campfire. The hobgoblin hoisted his oversized morning star at the ready, in case the owners of the fire were gnolls or kender. Though at this point, he would have been glad to see either, and was even beginning to understand Groag's embrace of enslavement.
As Toede approached, he noticed that the land changed visibly, with younger trees and clear patches open to the sky. In the gathering dusk, he nearly slammed into a great stone pillar that had been moored securely in his path. In the dying light he could see that it was deeply carved with faces, snakes, and tongues of fire. A declaration of ownership, perhaps, or a warning?
The campsite was centered in one of the larger open clearings, surrounded by a number of these carved stone plinths. Toede now saw that they were sprinkled throughout the forest, and that many had been toppled and partially buried in woods, while others were canted at odd angles. About twelve of the objects still stood within the glow of the campfire. They ranged from ten to fifteen feet in height, all set toward the perimeter of the clearing.
Other than these stony vigils, there were no outriders or other guards that Toede could see, which meant that the inhabitants of the camp were either very powerful or very stupid. Also Toede noted that the tents were made of new, bleached canvas, and threw off the light of the fire in all directions in brilliant white reflections.
Looks like a paladin's circus, thought Toede.
Human figures moved around the tents, gathering things, talking, and sitting on fallen monuments, writing in the growing dark.
The dusk had now reduced visibility, and Toede was so busy with his surveillance that he nearly stumbled over the guard. Actually, guard is not the correct word, since the human was hunkered down on one of the stone plinths like a priest in fervent prayer.
As Toede's knees struck the human form, the hobgoblin rolled forward, coming up with the morning star in hand, ready for attack. The human remained hunched over, facing the pillar, scribbling furiously.
Toede furrowed his brow. "Hello?"
"I'll come back to camp in a moment. Just let me finish this inscription."
"Oh. Right," said the hobgoblin, nodding uncertainly.
"Take your time." At least, Toede thought, I've found a place where prepositions are commonly used. He looked at the campsite, then at the scribbling human. In his best officious tone of voice, Toede said, "And where is the man in charge?"
The scribbler did not look up, nor did he halt his writing. He did raise his (non-writing) hand and wave in the general direction of the camp.
Heartened, Toede hoisted his weapon over his shoulder and sauntered in. A human passed him, clutching a heavy volume of velum notes, totally ignoring him. Another pair approached him, deep in conversation, parted around him and continued on, without even breaking their discussion to notice him. There were about twenty humans in the encampment, he guessed, and not one of them paid the least attention to a weapon-carrying, muck-encrusted, bad-tempered hobgoblin in their midst.
The scales tipped heavily toward the "very stupid" end of the spectrum.
Toede waddled up to the largest tent in the collection, which was actually a pavilion of the type used in street fairs and rainy wedding receptions. The entire front was open, and a number of large cooking pots were set on metal grills. No one was tending them at the moment, and Toede looked over the edge of one. A boiling gruel of what looked like wild carrots and tubers churned within the water, which smelled decidedly swampish (though that might have been just the smell of Toede himself).
There was a low table in the pavilion, and several humans were seated around it, addressing a small, hobgoblin figure. The humans were strangers, but the hobgoblin highmaster couldn't help an astonished smile as he recognized the smaller being's voice.
"I can't believe you failed to pack enough food," said Groag, in his very high, grumpy voice.
"And we can't believe you would let so obvious an omission escape your notice," said a voice, nasal, nasty and decidedly human.
"Ah. We did hire you, and, ah," said another of the humans, in a droning, sonorous, almost bored tone, "we thought you'd know best. Double-chec
k our plans and all that."
"You hired me as a cook," said Groag, stomping a foot on the hard-packed dirt floor. "I cook the food. That doesn't mean I catch the food. For that you should have brought along a… a…"
"Foodcatcher," said Toede, walking into the tent.
"Right, a foo-" and Groag wheeled to look at the grimy, mud-spattered, torn and worn form of Highmaster Toede. "Ooooo," he said, his piggy little eyes rolling up in his head.
A few seconds later, the older, sonorous human said, "Ah. Does he always, ah, faint like that?"
"Only at reunions," Toede responded, smiling.
Chapter 12
In which the nature of scholarly research in Ansalon is examined, Our Protagonist and his former servant compare notes and rate the merits of an early departure, and Charka returns, which the reader undoubtedly suspected would happen.
Groag awoke, his head spinning, in his small expedition tent. The pressure had finally got to him, he thought, the stress, the responsibility for feeding this lot of human apes. He had heard of such things, individuals seeing voices or spirits or…
Toede looked up from his seat across the tent and locked eyes with his former lackey.
To his credit, Groag did not faint again, but his throat tightened. "You're alive," he choked out.
"That should no longer be such a great surprise at this point," said Toede, lacing his fingers and leaning back on Groag's bedroll. "Paradise does not want me, and the Abyss is afraid I'll take over. The amazing thing is that you're alive. The last time I saw you, you were sprawled and smoking at Gildentongue's feet, if his flambeed form had feet, that is. What happened?"
Groag sighed and tried to explain, his voice slow at first, but picking up speed and surety as he went. "It was a near thing. About the time Gildentongue was smashing down your door, a mob from the Rock was smashing down the main entrance. This mob consisted of guards, concerned natives, the sergeant-at-arms, the captain, and some visitors who had audiences scheduled with Gilden-tongue the next day. They found me, burned pretty badly, inside the charnel house that had been Gildentongue's lair."