Lord Toede (12 page)

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.“ ”I'm surprised that anyone in that town would care to
aid an ignited hobgoblin,“ growled Toede. ”Well, to be exact, they didn't,“ said Groag,
raising his eyebrows in an expression of sad bewilderment. ”It was the visitorsa group of
scholars from the west, looking for permits and collecting supplies for their
investigation of folklore and legends in the area. A group of lesser sages, and librarians
under private sponsorship."

“That wouldn't be this lot?” said Toede, motioning to the entrance of the tent at the
greater world beyond, where the scribblers and scriveners had finally abandoned their work
to the darkness. Groag nodded. “They were quite decent. They rescued me and took care of
me, using their own potions and poultices to bring me around. Of course, by this time,
most of the seaward side of your manor had burned and collapsed, and they found Hopsloth.”

“Parboiled, I hope,” muttered Toede. Again the eyebrows raised, pinched in the center.
“Happy and healthy. By the time I regained consciousness, his story was on everybody's
lips. You never said the creature could talk.” It was Toede's turn to shrug. “I, myself,
learn new things each and every day.” “Well, he talks,” added Groag. “And spins a mean
tale through his own spokeshumans. Gildentongue had kept him in squalor, he said,
intending to tyrannize Flotsam. He had prayed to the Dark Gods for your return, and you
were sent by Takhisis herself to restore rightful order. Unfortunately, you died locked in
mortal combat with Gildentongue, and the pair of you were immolated by the draconian's
final destruction. Freed of such traitorous minions, Hopsloth could now take rightful
control of the city. It all sounded like something you might have dreamed up, had you
lived, but the idea of Hopsloth in charge made me very nervous, so I promised these
scholars my assistance in the field for a while.” “The question is,” asked Toede, “what
are you and (by connection) they doing here? You undoubtedly realize you are on the
borders of a gnoll-inhabited marsh accompanying a group with the common sense of a troop
of kender?” Again the pinched eyebrows. Toede decided that this (new) trademark gesture
was Groag's alternative to the kenderish shrug he had adopted the last time Toede was
alive. Toede thought to change his line of questioning. 'This time, how long was I...“
”Dead or missing?“ said Groag. ”Again, about six months, give or take a couple days. As to
what the scholars are doing, well, how much do you know about ogres?“ ”Ogres?“ asked
Toede, mildly surprised by the sudden change of subject. ”Nasty, filthy brutes. Make
gnolls look positively angelic. At least the gnolls wash their muzzles after biting the
heads off kobolds.“ ”Right,“ replied Groag. ”Well, the idea these scholars have is that
the ogres weren't always like that. That they were once a more noble, gentle, and good
race that was twisted by some foul magic or catastrophe. They believe that this area was
once the home of these proto-ogres, and these stone markers were their handiwork. Work's
been slow, since only Bunniswot has a handle on the proto- ogre language. Everyone else
has been copying carvings, making rubbings of the stones, and minor excavations, but
Bunniswot is the mastermind of the operation.“ ”Ogres serving the cause of good,“ sniffed
Toede. ”What a load of gorgon patties! This Bunnysnot is the older gentlemen with the
sonorous voice?“ ”No, that's the chief scholar, Renders,“ corrected Groag. ”Bunniswot is
the other one, the one with the fiery red hair.“ ”Talks through his nostrils,“ said Toede.
”Seems fairly unpleasant. Since he's the only one irreplaceable here, have you thought of
gutting him in his sleep and just going home?“ ”That would be unkind,“ said Groag, and
Toede was surprised to see that he was sincere. ”As well as unnecessary. Renders keeps
Bunniswot on a short leash. Besides, I don't think the human ever sleeps. He's in the
field all day, and works on translations all night. He keeps a magical stone in a box,
which gives off sufficient light for his work."

At this point the front flap of the tent vibrated, and Renders poked his head in. “I heard
voices. Are you awake, Groag?” Such stating the obvious was a peculiarly human trait,
Toede observed silently. For all he knew, that would be the next ugly habit that Groag
would pick up. Renders entered carrying two trays heaped with the boiled vegetables in
gravy that Toede had seen cooking in pots earlier. The food looked fairly gray and
unappetizing, even to someone whose last real meal was raw weasel. Toede took a sniff,
wondering once again if the humans were drawing their water directly from the swamp.
Still, it promised to be filling (after a fashion), so he dug in. Groag picked at his
food, as Renders squatted between the two hobgoblins, his bony knees jutting up like
mountains on an old map. “I hope you're feeling better. I had a few of the boys finish the
cooking, but I'm afraid they haven't the hang of it.” He gave a patriarchal smile that
reminded Toede of Gildentongue.

“It's... pt... very good ... pt...” said Groag, trying to spit out little bits of grit.
“Though next time tell the lads they should skin the vegetables, since it... pt... gets
rid of most of the dirt.” Renders nodded as if sage wisdom had been imparted to him. “I'll
tell them it was a good first attempt. But they were a bit... ah ... lavish with our
remaining stock. I'm afraid that someone will have to return to Flotsam to purchase some
supplies sooner than, ah, expected.”

The hairs on the back of Toede's neck immediately went up. Renders continued, addressing
Groag. “You can take the horses, and, ah, be there and back in four days. We should be
able to hold out that long. You can take your, ah, your friend along.” Renders motioned
toward Toede, who rose to his feet. “Advisor, actually,” said Toede, smiling broadly. “We
haven't had proper introductions yet. You can call me Underhill.” He held out a hand.
Renders admired Toede's outstretched paw with the caution usually reserved for
investigating locks for poison mechanisms. Then he shook it once, quickly, and turned back
to Groag as if Toede had suddenly vanished in a puff of smoke. “You and, ah, Underhill,
can leave tomorrow morning. We'll give you sufficient moneys for the supplies.” With that,
Renders turned and left the tent, without even saying good-bye to Toede. “Who does he
think he's talking to?” huffed Toede. “The cook ... pt...” said Groag, spitting out a
particularly large stone, then added, “and the cook's advisor.” He pursed his eyebrows
together, and Toede suddenly realized he had seen the same expression on Renders's face
when talking about “the boys'” attempt at cooking dinner. It was almost enough to make
Toede miss that irritating kender-shrug. Groag, now fed, drifted off in a light, muttering
sleep, but Toede remained up, sitting in the entrance to the tent, watching the humans.
They were less feverish than in the last hours of daylight, but no less insane in their
actions: involved in deep discussion with each other, examining scrolls and old books in
the light of the dying campfire, pawing over bits and pieces of what they had discovered
during the day. Even from this distance Toede could see that they were pawing over
veritable garbage: shattered pot shards and pieces of aged leather. There was one
unusually bright light in the camp, coming from what Toede assumed was Bunniswot's private
tent. He could see the silhouette of a human crouched over a camp table piled with
scrolls, books, and paper. The figure seemed to be working hastily, checking one tome,
leafing through another, getting up, pacing, writing a few words, then repeating the
cycle. Garbage and maniacs, thought Toede. It's a wonder any humans at all were made
highlords. And he too pursed his eyebrows in the centerin bewilderment. Actually, they
could not leave the next morning as Renders had proposed. This was chiefly because Groag
had some duties to tend to that included rationing out the remaining supplies for five
days of meals, leaving rough instruction to “the boys” (actually two full-grown men who
looked more capable of eating than cooking) on how to avoid poisoning the campers in his
absence, and cleaning out the cooking pots that said “boys” had left on the fire last
night until the bottoms consisted of over-baked gravy souffle. As a result, Toede had
sufficient time to explore the encampment. Not out of any human or kender form of
curiosity, but for defensive reasons. If anything larger than a wild hamster attacked this

group, the camp would fold up like a piece of origami. He wanted to know where the best
bolt holes were, and the quickest route to escape. He found Bunniswot sitting cross-legged
on the moss in front of a tilted plinth, writing in a notebook bound with two great slabs
of wood. The red-haired scholar must have noticed Toede's approach, for he snapped his
book shut quickly as Toede drew near.

“What?” said Bunniswot, in his high nasal tone. It was a short, dismissive, “go away”
what. “Just watching you work,” said Toede innocently. “Don't,” snapped Bunniswot, ending
the conversation. However, Toede did not budge and neither did the scholar reopen his
notebook. Silence reigned in their part of the universe.

“What?” repeated Bunniswot. “I was just wondering what you were looking for out here,”
said Toede. “I mean, is it treasure, or magic, or something else entirely?” “I really
don't see that it's any of your business,” said the scholar. “Good-bye.” “Hmmm,” said
Toede, wandering up to the tilted plinth and cocking his head. “Interesting. Very
interesting.” “You can read Proto-Ogre 1?” said Bunniswot, and Toede noted that his voice
cracked. “Hmmm?” said Toede, cocking an eye sideways at the scholar. “No, no, I was just
noting that the carving sequence is similar to the song cadences among my own people.
Dah-dah-dee, dah-dah- dee.” He pointed at a collection of glyphs. “Is this a song?” “Not a
song,” said Bunniswot quickly. “A ... memorial. A memorial to a fallen ur-ogre hero. Look,
what do you want?” Not waiting for Toede to reply, he added, “If I tell you what we're
here for, will you go away and let me finish?” Toede nodded. The red-haired scholar
summarized, moving his hands rapidly as he did. “Before there were ogres, back in the time
of legend, there had to be something that would become ogres, correct? Now, old legends
speak of a tall, beautiful, noble race. Enlightened, wealthy, powerful in magic, and
artistic in expression. Suddenly this race disappears from the legends, with only a few
scattered references to a great fall. Just as suddenly, the ogres appear and start doing
ogrish things. What does this suggest to you?” “That the ogres killed all your beautiful
artists and took their lands,” said Toede. “If I go to sleep with a bird in my room and
wake up with a cat there, I don't assume that one became the other.” Bunniswot gave Toede
a pained, withering look, and not for the first time in this discussion the hobgoblin
wished he had not left his morning star behind in the tent. “It means”Bunniswot stressed
the second word“that the ur-ogres became the ogres that we know about today. And I believe
we can learn from their example.” “We can learn how to become ogres?” suggested Toede.
Bunniswot ignored him. “Their culture, their arts, the high level of their existence that
exceeded that of the elves. And these are all that's left of their fabled civilization.”
He gestured toward the plinths. When Toede made no further crass remarks, Bunniswot
continued, softening his tone a little. “This is the closest possible location of a
surviving ur-ogre encampment. It took five months of scouting to find it. Renders handled
most of that. He's the chief scholar, and the one who dealt with that toad- monster in
Flotsam.” Toede opened his mouth to say something, but realized that the scholar was
speaking of Hopsloth. “And have you learned to read this?” Bunniswot's voice tightened
slightly. “Parts of it,” he said at last. “A lot of the grammar and sentence-parsing is
lost to me. But I may yet succeed, and if I do, my reputation will be made. Even the
Towers of High Sorcery will sponsor me. Then I will be able to find the great lost ogre
cities, and teach others about what I found, and publish a work of lasting value....”
Toede was spared Bunniswot's continued dreams of scholarly achievement by a shout from
Groag, who had already saddled up the small, shaggy horses and was ready to ride. The
hobgoblin excused himself and backed away from the scholar. As soon as Toede was a
sufficient distance away, Bunniswot's wood-clad notebook sprang open again, and the
scholar went