Lord Toede (11 page)

Toede shimmied backward even faster, in the process reducing the weight on the willow and
helping the creature emerge that much faster. The doglike head and huge neck were mounted
on a great humanoid body, with a broad, muscular chest. Its arms were each the diameter of
Toede's paunch and another half-Toede for good measure. Toede's mind raced to think of
creatures that matched its unusual appearance. Gnoll. The undoglike dog was not a dog but
a gnoll. Toede's mind reviewed what he knew of the hyena-headed humanoids, noted for their
low intelligence, nasty dispositions, and voracious appetites. Toede's mind wondered, How
could anyone be so stupid as to think this was a dog? Toede's mind looked shamefully at
his feet. 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.

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
hobgoblin. ”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-check 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.