by Jeff Grubb
"Charka lead troops," said the gnoll chieftain, "but want Renders to be safe in rear."
"Actually, I'd rather be with you and your entourage," said the human scholar, but Charka would not be swayed.
"Renders no has magic," went the gnoll's argument. "Renders no has muscle. Renders going to tell enemy stories? Maybe hit them with brain? No, Renders stays behind at camp."
"Leave Renders with me," said Toede, "behind the main body, but in a position to come up fast if the attack breaks down." He'll be a big help then, he added privately.
Charka agreed to the plan, if grudgingly. Taywin rocked back on her perch. "You know, I'm amazed," she said, looking at the two figures sitting across the fire. "Humans and gnolls usually fight, yet the two of you seem to have formed a fast friendship."
Charka looked at the kender. "Is it not obvious?" "Ah," said Renders. "Ah. I think you are thinking in terms of human and gnoll. You should instead think in terms of male"-he placed an affectionate hand on the gnoll's shoulder-"and female."
Taywin stopped rocking, and her eyes grew wide, such that her eyebrows would have disappeared beneath her hairline (if she currently had one).
Toede grunted, rising to his feet. "And on that note," he said, abandoning the kender to press on through what promised to be a conversational mine field, "I have to get back to my own studies." He padded off to his command tent.
The tent was made of motley pieces of stained, formerly white canvas that had once graced the scholar's camp, and had been presented (with as much pomp and dignity as the kender could manage) to Toede by the parents and children of the warriors Toede was sending off to die in Flotsam. Toede hated it because it was a reminder of the faith they had (or at least seemed to have) in him, and because it was such an inexpert job. The evening wind curled and howled through the hastily sewn, jagged patchwork.
Toede stomped into his tent, pulled out the camp chair in the gathering dark, and opened the box containing the light-stone. He fitted it into its holder, bathing the interior of the tent in a soft, warm light. Toede opened the book of his wit and wisdom to where he had last marked it, a passage that Bunniswot noted as being a frank discussion of free-market ethics. Toede was glad for the explanation, for otherwise he would have assumed it was about a noble and street duchess arguing about various prices and services.
Toede leaned back in his chair, balancing on the rear legs, and propped his feet up on a makeshift table of boards and stones. There was a small movement near his bunk, and a small, kender-sized figure appeared.
"Greetings, Toede," said Miles.
Toede would have jumped in surprise at the familiar intonation of the voice, but unfortunately, his current position was not made for jumping, so instead he merely pitched over backward in his chair.
Toede grunted as he hit the soft earthen floor and looked up to see a distinctly waterlogged Miles. His face was partially ruined by days of immersion in water and the tender bashing of the cascades, but it was still recognizable. If nothing else, the ornate dagger sticking out of his chest was a dead (pardoning the pun) giveaway.
Miles grinned, long-drowned muscles pulled almost entirely away from the skull. "I think I surprised you."
"You have a nasty sense of humor, Necromancer," said Toede, pulling himself to his feet.
"Everything about me is nasty," said the mage who was manipulating Miles's body and voice. "But I rarely have a chance to… display it."
"Lucky me," murmured Toede. More loudly he said, "Are your troops in position?"
"The bulk of them are," said Miles's corpse.
"Oh, they're platoons of invisible stalkers," said Toede, "with a wing of aerial servants, and a division of unseen avengers?"
Miles made a clucking noise that Toede assumed was laughter. "The bulk of my army has always been here, Toede, even during your reign. Lumber, stone, and trash were not the only things washed up on shore when Istar sank those many centuries ago."
"That's your army?" mocked Toede. "Those skeletons that haven't been turned up by the plow?"
The necromancer gave a kenderish shrug. "I have a small force that will make a… diversionary attack on the North Gate at dawn."
"They will be cut to ribbons," said Toede.
"It won't bother them," said the necromancer.
"Our assault will ideally come a half hour after yours."
"Your mind is sharp," said the undead kender. "I look forward to examining it." Before Toede could put in a retort, the necromancer added, "You are throwing your troops in in large numbers to create maximum chaos?"
"As if I have a choice," said Toede. "Subtlety is not in the gnoll playbook. They're going to catch the brunt of it."
"Good," hissed the necromancer. "Any on your side I should… spare?"
"You are only to take the dead," cautioned Toede, "not help borderline cases along."
"We agreed to that," said the necromancer. "What I mean is, are there any you wish to give a proper burial to? The scholars, perhaps, or the shaved kender?"
Toede thought a moment, then said, "No. A deal is a deal, and we all agreed to it. Should they fall, they fall into your hands."
"Easy for you to say," said the necromancer. "I will be going now. Remember, tomorrow, after dawn." He hefted Miles's light body to its water-curled feet.
"One last thing," said Toede, raising a hand.
"And that is?" said the undead creature.
"Do you have a real name?" asked Toede, smiling. "I mean, necromancer is just a title or a job description. What are you called at the Necromancer's Club?"
"Necromancers do not have clubs," said the creature, more of its face muscles loosening from their moorings as it gave a scowl.
"You know what I mean," said Toede.
A silence fell between the two. Finally, the necromancer spoke. "Bob," he said.
Toede's face brightened. "Bob?"
"It's short for-" the necromancer quickly put in.
Toede waved him silent. "Bob will do. Now we have something that only you and I know, so if you send a message, say it's from Bob, and I'll know it's not a counterfeit." The undead kender nodded, but the remains of its face muscles evidenced suspicion at Toede's reasoning. "I'm going now," the creature said at last. "Prepare well for tomorrow's battles."
"I wasn't counting on sleeping," said Toede, as the undead kender knelt and slipped under the back of the tent.
"I wasn't counting on you sleeping, either," said Miles's corpse with a smile, and then was gone.
Toede cursed and set up his camp chair again. The idea of escape had all the appeal of a cold shower. Cutting his losses and fleeing at that moment meant heading into the woods, where the necromancer likely had undead sentinels. The safest place for Toede at the moment was at the head of an army about to assault Flotsam.
Bunniswot stuck his head in the opening. "Are you alone?" asked the flame-haired scholar.
"In a manner of speaking," said Toede testily.
"Did Taywin tell you about Charka and Renders?" queried the scholar.
"Why aren't you back in Flotsam?" Toede asked sharply.
"I guess I never thought about Renders, you know, as being a romantic individual," continued Bunniswot.
"Why aren't you in Flotsam?" repeated Toede, verging on a bellow.
"I bring bad news and good news," said the scholar, smiling. Toede suddenly missed the straightforward threats of the necromancer.
Toede sighed. "Bad news first," said the hobgoblin.
"They know you're here," said the scholar.
"Small surprise," muttered Toede.
"And Groag has sent a messenger out to the dragon highlords, to ask for reinforcements."
Toede stroked his warty chin. That meant Groag was either unsure about the size and ability of Toede's forces, or was strapped for cash and in danger of losing some of the mercenary units. "And the good news?"
"Said 'messenger' is me," beamed Bunniswot. "Therefore, no message."
Toede was sile
nt for a moment, then said, "You left by the North Gate?"
Bunniswot looked confused for a moment, then said, "No, by the Southeast Gate. That is closer to here."
"Closer to here, human," said Toede, "but in the opposite direction of where you should have been heading. Perhaps Groag is stupid enough not to have noticed, but probably by now he realizes you're at best a coward and at worst a traitor."
"You're saying I made a mistake," said the scholar defensively.
"I'm saying your career in Groag's court is probably over," said the hobgoblin, "so you'd better hope that we win. Or better yet," he said, jumping off his chair and pacing, "head out first thing tomorrow, before the battle. If you reach the highlords, you can at least claim you were delayed."
"I could leave now," said Bunniswot.
"You'd be eaten by zombies," said Toede. "You have a horse?"
"Yes," said the scholar.
"I don't," said Toede. "I'll need yours for tomorrow, so you take one of the kender ponies."
Bunniswot stood there for a moment, looking at Toede.
"Yes?" said the hobgoblin.
"You meant it," said the scholar. "About the zombies. And about not going back to the city. You care about me. You don't want me getting into real danger."
I don't want you showing up during the battle with half your face eaten away, replied Toede mentally. It
would be distracting.
"So I have a soft spot," Toede lied. "Maybe I'm getting old. Maybe." He patted the open tome. "I guess I feel I have to live up to the reputation I've acquired in my absence."
Bunniswot gave Toede a look that he could not read, a combination of admiration and fear and something else. It lasted for only a moment, then the scholar stammered and said, "Ah, so you want my report, then?" His face was drained of blood as he reached into his vest pocket.
"Report?" said Toede, arching his eyebrows.
Bunniswot's hand hovered in his vest. "Groag's troop positions," he explained.
"Only if it's different from this," said Toede. "Mercenary troops across the holes in the wall, with militia elsewhere. The gates securely barred and barricaded, a minimal force in the north and west, and Groag's elite guard manning the Rock Wall, to be used as auxiliaries if our forces break through."
The young scholar jerked his empty hand back out of his vest as if he had discovered a venomous snake in there. "How did you…?"
"Groag is strapped for money to pay his mercenaries, and in any event is a cheap little cuss, so they will be placed in the position of the greatest potential loss of life. Dead meres don't draw paychecks. He then gives the less well-trained militia defensive posts they can cower behind, so they'll fight to protect their positions. Lastly, the elite guard is not intended to reinforce, but rather to protect the highmaster of Flotsam at all costs."
Besides, Toede finished to himself, Groag was there when I set up the bloody plan over two years ago.
Bunniswot's look changed to one of amazement. Shakily, he nodded. "That's right. It's all right." He started for the entrance. "If you want me, I think I'll bunk by the fire."
Toede walked to the entrance, watching the young scholar walk haltingly over to the campfire. Renders was telling yet one more Tale of the Lance to Charka and Taywin. Charka had apparently heard this one before, because he (no, she) was interjecting appropriate sound effects.
Bunniswot reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the papers detailing Groag's not-so-secret battle plans. He looked at them a moment, then tossed the plans on the fires. The flames glowed a brilliant green as they consumed the parchment, then dimmed.
Toede shook his head. He hadn't been all that hard on Bunniswot, but sometimes even scholars had to be taught that others knew things that they themselves did not. Still, Bunniswot was quite the nervous nelly, always swooning right and left. Better to get him out of the line of fire, before something bad happened to him, or more importantly, to those around him.
"He's a traitor, you know," said a small, delicate voice behind him.
He turned to a small, elfin figure hovering gently over the pages of Bunniswot's tome of Toede-advice. It was dressed in shades of blue and silver and white, with features so sharp they could cut glass.
Toede raised his eyebrows. "Doesn't anyone knock anymore?" He pulled his chair up to the open book so he was almost nose to torso with the small apparition. "You said Bunniswot was a…"
"Traitor," repeated the apparition in a high, melodic, singsong voice. "He works for Highmaster Groag. He means you harm."
"Uh-huh," said Toede. The small figure hovered there, its small feet barely grazing the pages of Toede's book.
"He seeks to catch you unaware and slay you, or failing that, to plant unsound ideas in your mind, hoping you will cause your own death," said the apparition, which looked like a cute pixie, a redundant statement most of the time, but applicable here.
"Uh-huh," said Toede, putting his hands on his knees.
"And you would be?"
"A spirit of wisdom," said the pixie. "A warning from the future. A voice of reason. The animated urge of learning."
'This is a multiple-choice test, I assume," said Toede.
"Mock not," said the spirit in blue and silver and white, "for he does mean you harm."
"So you say," said Toede. "Perhaps I should have Rogate take care of him."
"Trust not Rogate, either," said the spirit, "for he means you ill as well."
"He is a traitor too?" asked Toede.
"Only to himself," said the pixie. "For you scrambled his mind in your first meeting, in the tavern in Flotsam.
With every moment he spends with you, his mind clears, and soon he will realize that he was given the holy task to kill you."
"Hmmmm," murmured Toede, "then perhaps Charka and Renders can take care of them, but I suppose they are also…"
"Traitors," piped up the small creature. "They have been compromised by the necromancer, who also means you harm."
"That I never would have guessed," said Toede sarcastically.
The spirit pixie overlooked his attitude. "They have been promised dominion over Flotsam if they arrange for you to die in battle. Renders is to remain at your side, and slip a dagger between your ribs during the heat of combat."
Toede rubbed his chin again. "Then perhaps we should get the loyal kender rabble to throw these dastards into a makeshift brig, then execute the lot of them at dawn."
"Alas!" said the pixie.
"Let me guess…" said Toede. 'The kender mean me harm, too."
'The girl is loyal only to her father, who reserves a deep and abiding hatred for you." The pixie bowed its head remorsefully. "You are surrounded by treacherous servants."
"And to think that they don't realize they are all traitors," said Toede. "If only they were organized, they could have killed me days ago."
If the pixie was aware of sarcasm, it did not show on the being's delicate elfin features. "There is but one hope," it said, and Toede could almost hear inspirational music rising up around it.
"You must leave this place," the pixie said sternly. "Take the horse that Bunniswot brought, and ride to the south and east. You will find a small inn, with a single light in the window. Knock on the door and ask for shelter. They will take you in. With you absent, the attack will succeed, but the alliance will fall in upon itself, and the city will be wracked by civil war."
"You're saying I should flee like a coward," said Toede, leaning forward.
"It is the only way." The pixie nodded. "To save my own hide," said Toede, reaching up and curling his fingers around the edges of the book. "At the cost of my good name."
"You must leave now if you are to avoimmmmphl" The pixie's voice was stifled as Toede slammed the massive volume closed. He counted to ten, then opened the book. Only a small singed spot on the pages reassured him that it had not all been a dream.
"Surprisingly," he said aloud to the smoking scorch mark, "I've been thinking the same things myself.
Why would these good and, yes, noble people throw in with one such as I? I have been assigning them all sorts of evil motivations and reasons, and my guts have been twisted trying to figure it out.
"But your appearance, dear little singe," said the smiling hobgoblin, "confirmed my hypothesis. Twice now I thought I had things locked up to retake my throne, and twice now something materialized to swat me away. This time, my common sense says flee, and it is bolstered by a supernatural apparition. I have reached a decision."
Toede closed the book again, softly now, and took it with him as he left the tent. He padded back to the fire. Renders was finishing some saga involving gnomes and boats and gold dragons. Charka and Taywin were listening intently, while Kronin and Rogate were sketching lines in the dirt to hone battle plans. Bunniswot, one of the many accused assassins present, was curled up on his side, snoring softly.
Toede kneeled by Taywin, and asked quietly if she had a perfume bottle. She looked at him oddly, then nodded. He sent her to fetch it, along with whatever passed for a priest of the True Gods among the kender. Then the former highmaster handed the massive tome to Renders. Toede returned to the fire and built it up with a few logs, "raising a shower of sparks.
"If s going to be a long night," said Toede. "For a lot of people here, it will be their last one. If we're not going to sleep, we might as well know what we're fighting for."
Renders nodded and picked up the tome, starting to read where Toede himself had recently left off. The old scholar's voice started shakily, but soon he caught the cadence of the writing, the words falling from his tongue like petals. Bunniswot awoke with a snort and wiped the sleep from his eyes. Rogate and Kronin stopped their dirt-scribbling, and gnolls and kender, themselves unable to sleep, began to filter back into the glow of the campfire. Taywin returned with the holy kender and a spray bottle of perfume, and Toede spoke with the priest briefly and softly, then sent him to carry out his appointed duties.
Toede spent the remainder of the evening looking into the flames of the rebuilt fire, throwing on another branch or log whenever Renders reached the end of a parable. It seemed that the former highmaster was only half listening, but rather searching for something that could only be read in the dancing tongues of the flame.