by Jeff Grubb
Toede the victor stood over his conquest, coughing and sneezing on the dust that danced and sparkled in the spring sun. The battle had all the excitement, and the precise results, of kicking a puffball mushroom.
His vanquished foe lay face-up in two separate pieces on the river bank. Toede looked in the face (what remained of it) of his opponent, and saw why the creature put up so little fight.
The face of his would-be stalker was nothing more than a gray mask of dried skin, pulled tightly over the yellowed remnants of skull. The lips were slightly parted, the creature's teeth like pegs knocked out of their peg-holes, all askew.
A zombie. He was in the middle of the wilderness, caught between gnolls and kender and gods-knew what else, and here he encounters an armed and armored zombie in the first five minutes of his new life. What, he thought bitterly, had he done to deserve this?
And more importantly, he added to himself, who had he done it to? One suspect rose immediately in Toede's mind. The
fabled necromancer could call up a single zombie, or a dozen, in his free time between tea and supper, without even breaking a sweat. However, said necromancer would not know exactly where Toede's location was when he reappeared, nor would the death-mage have any particular reason to want Toede dead.
Toede went through a mental list of individuals who might want to see him restricted to shambling on undead feet through some unlit passageway for all eternity and was distressed to find that it was so long.
Or it could be someone else entirely.
It could be a chance encounter; maybe this zombie got bored doing his mundane tasks and decided to go for a spring stroll.
Toede smiled, but his a smile was without mirth. He took the long sword and the dagger from the undead creature's deathlike grip, snapping a few finger bones in the process. The dagger he shoved in his belt, and the scabbard he slung over his shoulder, since if he wore it on his belt the tip would leave a faint furrow in the soft ground.
Then he headed north, upstream along the creek, wondering where he could find some kind of defensible place to call home.
The climb was relatively easy, as the stream divided into two smaller creeks, and the rightmost creek into two smaller brooks, and the rightmost brook in a series of rock-strewn trickles and tributaries.
As the creek bed rose above the vale below, Toede turned and regarded his world. He was facing south and could see a landscape dotted with the light greens and cyans of new buds, and a sprinkling of wildflowers. Far toward the horizon was the accursed swamp, a thick miasma of haze blurring its outlines.
Toede resumed climbing, congratulating himself on his cunning. Were someone like the necromancer pursuing him, he would assume Toede took the easiest route: downstream.
The tributary Toede had been following finally ended in a natural spring bubbling up from the rock. The brush had surrendered utterly to rocky ground, dotted by a few gnarled, ancient trees. Not the best territory to eke out an existence, but sufficient for protection, Toede noted.
Whatever fates there existed were with him when he spotted an old, half-tumbled hovel halfway up the hill above the spring. It was little more than an entrance hall, and ran about fifteen feet back into the hill, with a low ceiling that sloped downward in the back to join the floor. The cabin had been abandoned. The rotted remains of a musty bedroll, tarnished platterware, and termite-infested wood littered the small one-room interior. The dry smell of food that had spoiled, rotted, or evaporated hung heavy on the air. An open sack of flour stood on one low shelf. Toede tested it with his dagger point; it had solidified into a powdery white brick.
Toede imagined that this had been the home of some dwarven miner, guessing from the low ceilings and amount of rusted iron present. Probably there was an excavation somewhere nearby, or a shaft back into the hills. Probably, said shaft ended with a cave-in and a pair of dwarven boots sticking out of the rubble.
Toede cleared out the garbage (that is to say in general, emptied the cabin), but declared the bedroll serviceable after removing it, thwopping it against a boulder a few dozen times, and standing back as enough dust billowed from its insides to gag a mummy.
By the time he had finished reintroducing the concept of livability to the hovel, the sun was already nuzzling the horizon, and Toede's stomach was grumbling. He sat on his front porch (a patch of dusty ground, actually) and nibbled on dinner (the last bit of smoked meat that looked semi-edible). In the morning he would have to look for some berry bushes, maybe set a few traps (a deadfall was a deadfall, regardless of what it was falling on), and scout for neighbors.
The last of the sun retreated, leaving a band of reddish fire along the horizon. In the distance there was the howl of a wolf or wild dog. The air was cooling, and Toede thought briefly of building a fire, but he had no idea what else was living in the neighborhood, and there was no need to advertise his presence just yet.
Toede rose, sighed, and leaned against the frame of the doorless entrance to the hovel (that creaked alarmingly). The reddish hue along the horizon was ebbing, and the stars were coming out overhead.
"Perhaps," he said to no one in particular, "this is the answer. No Flotsam. No Balifor. No kender or gnolls or scholars. Perhaps."
So he retired to bed, lying face-up, his fingers threaded behind his head, considering his options. Maybe this was what the shadowy figures were saying: travel and die or remain in place and build your own little lordship. Not a bad concept, and maybe it would do for a while. Even if a week passed, and he became bored beyond belief, that would be three days longer than he had survived before.
There was the wolf howl again, and Toede's last thought was that he would have to fix up a decent door. That resolution belonged on the upper end of his "things-yet-to-be-done" list.
Toede awoke to a deep growling. He opened his eyes to see a large, shaggy black hound sniffing his face. The idea of a decent door moved even higher into the top ten of his "to-do" list. The creature was as black as soot, with pale green eyes. It would have been considered huge even if Toede were not lying on his back looking up into its slavering jaws. The hound sniffed at Toede and growled again.
Toede's eyes never left the hound, but his hand spidered along the bedroll until it closed on the hilt of the zombie's short blade.
Still in silence, he swiftly brought the dagger up between himself and the dog. The creature had some experience with weapons, because it backed up a few paces. Toede rose, snaking his other hand out to grab the zombie's sword from its scabbard. Now with two weapons, he advanced on the creature.
The creature backed up a few more steps. From his position Toede could see no more animals, and assumed that this one was a stray or loner. Toede moved forward another couple of paces, as the creature backed fully out of the cabin, into the moonlight beyond.
In the moonlight, the creature seemed to shrink in size and menace. Indeed it was a dog, a large mastiff, inky dark and mud-spattered. It stretched its back out, pushed forward on its paws, and wagged its tail, its tongue hanging out the left side of its mouth. It whined at him.
Toede smiled, thinking of when he had first met Charka, and assumed the gnoll was a dog. Perhaps this dog was a dog, and would prove some help in hunting. Either that or make for a good meal in a tight spot.
Toede tucked the dagger in his belt (keeping a firm hand on his long sword) and stepped through the doorway, reaching out to pet the animal, making small, affectionate clicking noises with his tongue.
"Gotcha, you rat!" said a vaguely familiar voice as the back of Toede's neck exploded in a spasm of pain. The ground came up very fast (the dog leaping out of the way), and he was swallowed by blackness.
But not before another, more familiar voice said, "Oh, pooh, I think you hurt him."
Chapter 21
In which Our Protagonist is lured away from his pastoral setting and his final reward, and becomes involved with a situation of his own making, but not quite exactly as he would have expected it.
Toede awoke with a ringing that started at the base of his neck and radiated throughout his entire form, ending in (what he imagined were) vibrating fingertips.
He expected to be back on the stream bank, having set a new record for dying. Instead, he was inside a suspiciously familiar dwelling, made of hooped wood and brush in the kender style. He blinked his eyes, trying to focus.
"Hello, Toede," said a small figure across the room. "You really are Toede, aren't you? The one and true Toede."
Toede squinted, normal vision returning. The figure was familiar, child-sized, and dressed in fringed leather. Her face was more tightly drawn and serious than before, and the soft russet ringlets of her hair had been replaced by a short, rust-colored down that snugly wrapped her skull.
"Taywin," he muttered. "Kronin's daughter. The berry picker. The kender poet. You've changed your look." He couldn't help but frown in disapproval, though to his hobgoblin sensibilities anything was an improvement over her previous appearance.
Taywin Kroninsdau passed a hand over her scalp. "It is you," she hissed, then in a more normal voice added, "You saved my life, a year ago."
"I was…" Toede paused. If she had wanted simple vengeance, she would have had him killed immediately. Try honesty, he thought, but temper it with wisdom.
"I was just trying to escape," said Toede, raising his eyebrows to indicate his sincerity. "Saving you was a happy by-product."
"Yes," said Taywin, her face furrowing. "It was that awful Groag's idea, wasn't it?"
Now comes the wisdom part. Toede nodded as if in agreement, but added, "Groag's involvement is immaterial to my own actions. One must take responsibility for one's own deeds."
"Ah yes," nodded Taywin. "Be truthful in thy trysts and reap the bounty of thy trust," she said, smiling at him.
Toede wondered if her poetry had taken a turn for the worse. That would explain the haircut. He shook his head, waved his hand, and said, "Whatever. Where am I?"
"In our camp," said Taywin, ignoring his confusion. "We're having a major moot this evening, and Daddy's going to have to decide if we're going to join the Allied Rebellion or not. You'll be there, of course."
"Of course," said Toede, already checking the exits and wondering how many guards must be posted outside. They hadn't chained him up, which was a good sign, but this talk of a rebellion was bad. Perhaps he could learn more, then head for the hills until he ascertained whoever it was they were rebelling against.
"This revel alliance…" began Toede.
"Rebel," corrected Taywin. "If s the Allied Rebellion."
"… is a new thing," finished Toede. "Assume I'm unaware of what has transpired since we last met. Pretend I'm ignorant in all this."
"I come to you skyclad and unshorn, seeking the teachings of the flesh." She was quoting again, and something tickled the back of Toede's mind. "The rebellion got its start about five months ago, after the destruction of most of Flotsam by a magical creature of great power," she said.
"His name was Jugger," muttered Toede. "At least that was the name you or I could pronounce."
Taywin's eye lit up in childlike glee. "So you were there! Both sides have claimed so!"
Toede shrugged and said, "For a little while I was. But what…" Toede's question was interrupted by a knock at the door, and a tall, flame-haired human who was kneeling down to peer inside.
"Is our guest awake?" said Bunniswot, looking tanner and (if possible) thinner than he did at his last meeting with Toede.
"I was just telling him the tale of the rebellion," Taywin said brightly. "He was there, as you said, at the helm of the mighty hammer-creature… What did you say its name was?"
"Jugger," said Toede, regarding Bunniswot as if the scholar had just popped out of a cake. "I was unaware you two knew each other," he said, eyes wide, adding to himself, But not horribly surprised, given that you're both a few boulders short of an avalanche.
Taywin shot a concerned look at Bunniswot. "And our other guest, is he…?"
Bunniswot sighed. "Out spreading the good word, again. I last saw him trying to win over your father's guards."
Taywin rose and stomped her small feet. "I asked him to stop doing that. Daddy will get the wrong idea about the movement, and he'll never help us. I'll go get him."
Bunniswot nodded. "Good idea, but take Miles with you." At the sound of his name, a vaguely familiar kender guard popped his head in the hut. He nodded at Taywin, then stared at Toede and smiled. It was a creepy smile,
made all the more so by the fact that every second tooth, top and bottom, was missing.
The berry-picking guard, Toede realized, and he suddenly understood the force of the blow on the back of his own head. Toede touched the lump there and smiled back venomously. Whatever else, this matter was far from over.
They locked glares for a moment, then Taywin breezed between them. She curtsied before Bunniswot, and said, "Dance upon the water lilies, Scholar Bunniswot."
Bunniswot returned the benediction. "Dance upon the water lilies, Taywin Kroninsdau."
The two kender disappeared, and Bunniswot, still hunched over, shuffled over to where Taywin had been seated and sat down, stretching his long legs.
Bunniswot managed a tired smile. "So, how are you feeling? When Miles and Taywin dragged you in, I was afraid they were too rough on you."
Toede shrugged off the concern and said levelly. "/ come to you skyclad and unshorn, seeking the teachings of the flesh, eh?"
Bunniswot reddened and coughed. "Ah, that," he said, gulping. "You know, I'm glad to have this time alone with you, so we can sort this out."
"It took me a quote or two to make the connection," said Toede with a smile. "Thaf s what all this lily-dancing and trusting trysts is all about, isn't it? The ogre pornography."
"Well, yes and no," said Bunniswot. "And it's ur-ogre, and erotica."
"What does 'yes and no' mean?" said Toede.
Bunniswot spelled it out. "After Renders disappeared and the gnolls were defeated, I had trouble getting my… er, findings, published. There was neither funding nor support, and frankly, the material did have a… risque… nature to it."
"So…?"
"So I had it published myself," said Bunniswot. "Initial release of twenty handwritten copies. Second release of a hundred. Working on a third now."
"I know there's something coming that I won't like," said Toede, reducing his eyes to slits. "Why not tell me now and get it over with?"
"I didn't publish it as historical documentation. No one in academia would take something like this seriously." Bunniswot smiled weakly.
"And instead…?" continued Toede. Bunniswot looked at the floor, speaking very fast. "I said it was the political and scholarly advice of one of the most misunderstood warrior-leaders of our time. The not-so-late Highmaster Toede." "What?"
"It's gotten very good reviews," put the scholar in quickly. "The Tower of High Sorcery alone has asked for three copies. We're talking about reprinting it for the libraries of Sancrist."
"You signed my name to your ogre pornography?" hissed Toede, keeping his volume down as best he could. "Well, I didn't call it pornography," replied Bunniswot with a 'what-kind-of-idiot-do-you-take-me-for' tone to his voice.
Toede felt his face grow red. "What. Did. You. Call. It?" He bit off each word.
"Political and social allegory, concentrating on both the relationship between the ruler and the ruled, and the relationships between rulers and other rulers," said Bunniswot.
"So all the talk about sex is…?" Toede felt a mounting pressure building behind his eyes.
"Not about sex at all," Bunniswot said, nodding, "unless you have a filthy mind. And since no one admits to having a filthy mind, it's okay."
"Wonderful," muttered Toede. "And I take it our kender poetess has read the book."
"She can quote it chapter and verse," said Bunniswot.
"If s the text book for the Allied Rebellion."
Toede did not know if he was supposed
to laugh or ay. "So I'm credited with a book I didn't write, that is about sex although it isn't, and that is being used by a rebellion that has yet to rebel?"
Bunniswot tilted his head slightly, as if considering Toede's argument. "Good summary," he said at length.
Toede pressed his hands to his temples. "Just bloody wonderful. Okay, what else can go wrong?"
"We're back!" said Taywin, bouncing into the hut.
She was followed by a large, angry-looking human dressed in black. Toede's eyes widened. His shirt was open to reveal a large T that had been carved into his chest.
The assassin from the Jetties towered over Toede. Even hunched over, his shoulders grazed the ceiling of the hut. The assassin's eyes glowed like hot embers with barely contained emotion. At his hip was a great sword in a rune-carved scabbard.
Toede felt his throat go dry, his tongue turn to sandpaper. Toede choked out, "Dance on the lilies, warrior."
The assassin let out a great cry, and Toede backed up. As it was, he was pressed flat against the wall of the hut when the human drew his sword and collapsed to his knees, presenting it, hilt-first, to the hobgoblin.
"My life is yours, O sage leader!" said the warrior, his eyes focused on Toede's toes.
Toede pried himself from the side of the wall with as much decorum as he could muster. He took the sword (the same one, he noted, that had previously been used in combat against Groag) from the warrior's hands, and strongly considered ramming it right back into the human's T-inscribed chest. However, as this might lead to further complications with the kender, (particularly the guard with the club), he instead gently touched the warrior with it on the shoulder, his mind scrambling for something suitable to say for the occasion.
"Your life is yours to live," mumbled Toede. "Arise, good Sir… In all the previous excitement I never learned your name?"