Lord Toede (14 page)

In which Our Protagonist heralds a warning, learns that some discoveries are best left
undiscovered, and resolves to trust in his own instincts and abilities as opposed to those
of greater powers. They can make me come back, but they can't make me stay, thought Toede,
guiding the horse back toward the forest of stone. By “they” he meant the gods, or the
shadowing, shadowy beings, or whatever perverse creations were responsible for acts of
fate and luck. A short mental list of true gods failed to reveal any whose personal
province might be making his life miserable, but Toede felt there had to be one or two who
were gripping their sides, trying to keep their intestines from bursting loose from the
elation they felt at his ordeal.

It was nearly midnight. More than enough time to alert the camp and convince them to start
running and running hard in the face of an imminent gnollish invasion. Unless the gnolls
were willing to engage the scholars in a penmanship contest, there was little chance the
humans would last more than fifteen minutes.

He had ridden this far, Toede thought, it would be a shame not to inspire just a little
panic and fear among them. Toede dismounted and sighed, trying to decide who he would most
like to shock into apoplexy first. The magical light source that Bunniswot kept for his
all-night sessions shone brightly and steadily, and Toede spotted a solitary shadow moving
against the tent wall. “Might as well discomfort the awake first,” said Toede. Of course,
awake or asleep, Bunniswot likely would have been one of the first people Toede would have
brought the bad news to, anyway, just to enjoy the human's reaction.

Toede rapped on the tent wall, and the figure started. Toede was disappointed only in that
he had hoped the young scholar would plaster himself against the opposite tent wall in
shock. The shadow moved quickly around the tent. “What?” shouted Bunniswot. “No time for
that/' snarled Toede, pushing aside the tent flap and entering. ”We have to evacuate the
area at... once." Toede, smirking, strode into the scholar's small tent. Every flat
surface and several tilted ones were piled high with paper, rubbings, scrolls, books, and
thin metal plates. A strong, steady light was provided by a glowing metal ball set into an
iron holder, the entire assemblage mounted on a small cherrywood box.

The cause for the smirk was the scholar's appearance. Bunniswot had a random collage of
paper clutched to his bare, hairless chest. He was dressed in pajama trousers with a
drawstring top and a long, open-fronted robe. The robe was hand-made, with patches in the
shapes of holy symbols and magical formula crudely stitched to it. But the real source of
amusement was the scholar's footwear. Each close-fitting slipper had a pair of protruding
eyes jutting from the front, as if the scholar had slipped a pair of rabid beavers over
his feet.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” shouted Bunniswot softly, in the tone and volume
of a man in the mood for arguing but unwilling to wake the neighbors. He stomped his foot
for emphasis. Toede noticed the eyes on his slippers were clear little half-shells, with
black marbles set inside, and they wiggled as he stomped.

Toede tried unsuccessfully to stifle the image of Bunniswot running from the gnolls, his
little foot- eyeballs spinning. Instead he said, “Scholar, you and your party are on
grounds that are sacred to a tribe of gnolls. They are massing for a major attack shortly
after sunrise.” Unless they get bored and kill Groag early, he added silently. “Your cook
and I were ambushed, and I barely escaped with my life. It is imperative that you and the
others leave this place as soon as is humanly possible.” Bunniswot grimaced and collapsed
onto his folding chair, much like a man who had just had his shin tendons severed. The
papers fell from his hands, cascading onto the ground. He raised a delicate hand and
pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes tightly.

“But our scouts said that there were no gnolls around here,” the scholar said weakly.
“Kender, yes, a necromancer, yes, but no gnolls.” “Next time make sure to check the
swamp,” said Toede, walking up to a pile of papers lying on top of a leather trunk. "I'll
go wake the others, then I'll ride to Flotsam for help. You probably won't be

able to load up this mess, and it would slow you down, anyway. If you want to save your
work, you should put the most important material in a trunk and bury it, then come back
later." And if you're like most scholars, thought Toede with a malicious grin, you'll
still be organizing your piles of notes when the gnolls come crashing down on the last few
moments of your life.

Instead, Bunniswot responded, “Perhaps it's better this way. Everything here will be
trampled if we're attacked. If we're lucky, they'll burn the entire lot of it.” Then he
gave out a brittle cry, put his head in his hands, and began to sob. Toede did not fancy
himself an expert on human behavior beyond the standard buttons he could push to get his
way: fear, terror, greed, threats, greed, fear, and greed. But it struck him that this was
odd behavior for a man whose life's work was in the direct path of a gnoll invasion.
Perhaps the ogres had dark secrets that no living mortal should know. That was worth
investigating. Toede glanced at the papers he had been clearing. The scholar's handwriting
was crabbed but readable in the pale light of the tent. “I didst come unto her skyclad and
unshorn, seeking the teachings of the flesh, wearing nought but my finger cymbals and the
night air,” Toede intoned. Eyebrow raised, he looked at Bunniswot. The scholar just shook
his head and returned to sobbing. Toede picked up another piece of foolscap. “We danced
among the water lilies that evening, Angelhair and I, and dined upon each other's fleshly
pleasures.” A third. “.. . and we were joined in our revels in the pavilions by two
others, fair of face and unmarred of beauty, their eyes as bright and comely as the pale
full moon ...” Bunniswot sighed deeply. “Stop,” he pleaded. “I'm so ashamed.” “This is
your secret?” smirked Toede. “That you toil through the night writing naughty poetry? A
minor sin at best, punishable by brief immersion in white-hot magma. Nothing to lose your
grip over. The gnolls can't even read.” “You don't understand.” Bunniswot, tears in his
eyes, looked up. “It's all like that. All of it.” He gestured around the tent walls. Toede
realized that the scholar meant the forest of stone beyond. “You mean the pillars,” he
said, now smiling broadly. “Yes, the bloody pillars,” cursed Bunniswot. “I've deciphered
forty of them now.” “And they're all...” prompted Toede. “This!” He picked up a packet and
threw it against the far wall. The pages fluttered like pigeons landing in the square.
“Love poems! Trysts! Revels! Rendezvous! Smut!” “That's really, really interesting,” said
Toede, edging toward the tent entrance. “And perhaps we can discuss it later, say, after
you hurry up and save your life.” Bunniswot ignored him. “I put Renders up for this
exploration, did you know that? I found references to this place in preCataclysmic texts,
stressing its age, its beauty, its mysterious origins. There was supposed to have been a
great battle here, where the local inhabitants, my ur-ogres, battled and caged a creature
of the Abyss. I expected a lost city, a temple, or at least a monument. Something to
justify the time and effort. Something worth publishing.” Toede thought for a moment, then
said, “Perhaps later you could spruce it up a bit, clean up the smut. Sort of a vulgate
version, for the masses.” “This is the cleaned up version,” said the scholar, seeming
ready to collapse again. “Even the vulgate is vulgar,” he sighed. “And you haven't told
Renders because ...” “Oh, Gilean's book and bladder, I can't. He showed so much faith in
this project, and all I have to show for it is . . .” “Ogre pornography,” said Toede,
shaking his head. “Not that this should depress you any further, but there are
bloodthirsty gnolls to worry about now.” “What shall I do? What can I do?” moaned
Bunniswot, staring at the debris in his tent. “What you would do anyway?” said Toede,
realizing that Bunniswot in his present condition was not high on the list of prospective
survivors of the upcoming massacre. "Pack as much as you can,

particularly your ... er, translations, while I wake the others. Then have them bury the
chest, but not so deep that water can't get to it. Then you wait several years before
coming back and discover your notes have been destroyed. You reconstruct as much as
possible, but of course, the gist of it is lost. Your reputation is saved, not to mention
your life."

Bunniswot shook his head for a moment, then said quietly, “That could work.” “Goood,”
purred Toede, edging to the opening of the tent. “I'll wake Renders and get everyone
else.” Once outside in the cool autumn darkness, Toede fought the urge to double over in
laughter. It was unbelievable what humans would worry about when faced with extinction.
This experience made his third life worth living, regardless of whatever happened next.
Maybe it would be worth saving these humans after all, just to watch Bunniswot go crazy
trying to hide his little off-color secret from the others. “Ogre love poems,” he
chuckled, heading for Renders's tent.

*****

“Ah. Quite impossible, you realize,” said Renders, stroking his beard. “We couldn't pack
sufficiently in darkness, even given a, ah, day or so. There is too much left to be done.”
It was ten minutes and one quick explanation after Toede left Bunniswot to his fate of
“publish and/or perish.” Renders was being more difficult than the hobgoblin had deemed
possible. Once more, the hobgoblin was on the verge of abandoning the thick-headed humans
to their fate.

Instead Toede argued, “Lef s recapitulate. A huge horde of hundreds of gnolls is about to
attack at dawn, maybe...” He made some mental calculations about Groag's ability to hold
out. “Thirty minutes afterward, tops. They will be screaming for blood since you're on
land they think is sacred. They will kill first, ask monosyllabic questions later. I'm
leaving now and strongly recommend you do the same.”

“Hmm,” said Renders, continuing to stroke his beard meditatively. “No. No. We'd lose too
much data, too many samples, too many pot shards. Why, ah, Bunniswof s material alone
would take days to properly sort and pack.” “Bunniswot is already packing the best of his
material,” said Toede, imagining the fire-haired young scholar stuffing as much ogre
erotica as possible into the leather trunk. “Oh, dear,” said Renders. “If he's rushed,
something may be accidentally destroyed.” He should be so lucky, thought Toede, while
continuing aloud, “I've done my duty. I've brought the warning, and if you're smart you'll
withdraw to Flotsam.” “Wait a tic,” said Renders. “You said the gnolls were coming from
the, ah, the north, down the path we've been using. Correct?” “Right,” nodded Toede,
rolling his eyes. “And the marshes are to our south and east, and are also
gnoll-inhabited, eh?” “I have had a limited exposure to the extent of the gnolls'
influence, but I think it's a given that they could find us easily there,” said Toede.
“So, ergo, you are trapped here with us,” finished Renders, as calmly as a merchant
explaining the difference between a chicken egg and a goose egg. “Beg to differ,” said
Toede, already halfway to the opening of the tent. “For there's a path from the road north
that leads west. Good-bye.” “Ah,” said Renders. “Ah. So you don't know, then?” At the tent
opening, Toede turned again. I'm going to regret this, he thought. “Don't know what,
then?” “About the necromancer,” said Renders as calmly as if he had said “about the flower
shop” or “about the new maid.” I was right, Toede thought, I'm already regretting it. He
raised his eyebrows and asked, “Necromancer?” “Nasty sort,” said Renders. "The first
scouts we sent were returned as ... ah ... zombies, carrying a

message that he didn't care what we did with the pillars, as long as we stayed out of his
territory.“ Renders thought a moment. ”Interesting chapit seems he can speak through the
zombies he creates, like puppets. Or marionettes. Or something like that. In any event, he
rules the west.“ Toede came back in, leaving the tent flap open to the cool night air. He
could feel time slipping away like a handful of mud. He sat down opposite the elder
scholar. ”My horse wouldn't go that way," he said dully.

“Your horse is, ah, smarter than you,” said Renders, not presuming to understand why Toede
would have wanted to go in that direction in the first place. “What you're saying is that
we're trapped here,” said Toede, mentally cursing himself for not fleeing to Flotsam
earlier, not coming up with a better story, not learning about the necromancer, not
leaving Charka to die in the first place, not killing himself as soon as he realized he
was alive again. Pretty much everything that had occurred in the past few days of his
life, he cursed.

“Well,” said Renders, counting off the cardinal directions. “Marshes. Marshes. Gnoll army.
Necromancer.” He nodded. “Seems you are right. Trapped, that is.” A long silence fell
between the two as Toede felt the mud of time in his fingers turn to water, and then to
vapor. Finally, Renders said, “Perhaps you could talk to them.” He ignored the cold look
the highmaster gave him, which could have frozen water. Renders continued. “After all,
they are a murderous nonhuman bunch of savages, and you, well. . .” He motioned toward the
empty air as if to say the point was obvious. “I've learned to chew with my mouth closed,
thank you,” said Toede, keeping his voice in check and wondering if the gnolls would thank
him if he started in on braining a few scholars now. Judging from Charka's earlier
attitude toward gratitude, probably not. “You could at least try. To talk to them,” added
Renders. Or talk my way through them, thought Toede, mentally adding another notch to
Charka's intelligence for advancing toward the camp along their only real line of retreat.
“The problem is,” said Toede, leaning back and stroking his chin. “The problem is, we need
some superiority, some dominance that they might fear. Say, for example”Toede looked at
the lamplit roof of the tent “magic. Do you have any wizards of any ability in your
group?” Renders chuckled. “In my experience, wizards aren't very willing to share their
knowledge. And they're always looking for this magical item or that artifact. No, we never
bring them along on a dig if we can help it.” Bloody wonderful, thought Toede. “What about
warriors, someone good with a sword?” “We had some scouts,” said the older sage, “but we
let them go soon after we started. Cheaper that way, with the necromancer not bothering
anyone, and we didn't know about the gnolls, of course. There's always ... you.” “It would
be difficult for all of you to hide behind even my muscular, battle-hardened frame,” said
Toede, confident by this point that Renders was immune to sarcasm. “And besides, I'm not
for hire, and I don't think that Groag's cooking would be reason enough for me to want to
die at your side.” “Ah,” said Renders, jerking himself upright. “Of course. How foolish. I
was so used to dealing with the other one, the cook, that I just assumed. Hmmm, where did
I put it? Ah!” The elder scholar pulled a large box out from his trunk and rummaged
through it. He removed a large gem, about the size of Toede's thumbnail, and set it on the
table before the hobgoblin. “Will that do?” he asked. Toede picked up the gem and turned
it over a few times. If it were a fake, it was one that could pass his critical eye (and
by connotation anyone else's, short of a dwarf's). Toede nodded, pocketing the gem. At
least I'll die rich, he thought. Toede looked out at the still-sleeping camp, thinking of
recommending that the scholars just take their chances with the swamp or the necromancer.
Across the dying embers of the campfire, he could see the clear light of Bunniswot's
magical stone, showing the dancing shadow of the young scholar trying to re-cover that
which he had so recently uncovered. Toede smiled. “Actually, Renders, I can talk to them,
but first I'll need some things from Bunniswot.”