Lord Toede (24 page)

Toede nodded. “Done.” Renders patted Charka on the arm. “Who's next?” asked the zombie.
Rogate spoke up. “I live only to serve Lord Toede, and accept whatever role he chooses for
me.” The necromancer made a wheezing (if rude) noise. “No one honestly believes such.”
Toede stepped in. “Rogate does. That's enough for me. He has already been knighted for his
efforts and loyalty. Bunniswot?” “I live only to serve,” said the young scholar, spreading
his hands. “I'd buy that from Rogate,” said Toede, “but not you. You already have a
position of some minor importance in Groag's court. Why risk helping us?” Bunniswot was
silent. “Maybe I want to be a part of history. A part of change,” he said at last. “Maybe
you want to play at being the lord's advisor, moving the pieces around the board at your
own whims?” suggested Toede. “I'm insulted,” said Bunniswot (bingo, thought Toede). “At
most I want your input into the history I will write about your life and career.” “Done,”
said Toede. Having gone through the list, the hobgoblin returned the conversation to its
starting place. “And you, Necromancer, what do you want?” “There are casualties in every
conflict,” said the zombie. “Their deaths will swell my ranks. I will not dissemble to
inferiors, so I tell you that I foresee many deaths in this conflict. I demand all the
bodies of the dead after the battle is over.” Toede shot a look at the other members of
the rebellion. Charka was scowling, but both Rogate and Taywin were noddingthe hard,
cold-faced agreement of soldiers to whom death was no stranger. Renders looked as though
he had swallowed part of his ear, and Bunniswot was going pale once again. The zombie
ignored all this. “Also, I want your body.” “You're not my idea of a suitable mate,” said
Toede. “You jest,” said the necromancer, not jesting. “If you perish in the assault, I
want your physical remains. Among other things, I am curious whether you are able to
return with or without your body, or to the same location in your next life. Purely
scientific interest.” “Purely,” said Toede, thinking that the necromancer could build an
army of hobgoblin bodies should Toede kick off every six months. Then another image
crossed his brain, of an undead Toede sitting on the throne of Flotsam, controlled by the
necromancer. “Only if I perish in battle,” Toede qualified. Even through the mask of
undead flesh Toede could detect the flicker of greed. “Done,” said the necromancer. “How
soon before the kender can mass at the edge of Flotsam's fields?” Taywin looked at the
zombie. “Three days, maybe four.” “Make it three,” said the necromancer. The auguries are
right for three days hence. In the morning, south of the city, where the walls are still
ruined. Will the gnolls be ready for a fight?“ ”Charka always ready!“ ”Meet the kender
there the night before,“ said the zombie. ”My forces will be ready the next morning. Are
there any questions?“ There was only silence from the other members of the rebellion.
”Good.“ The zombie pitched forward, dissolving into dust as it fell. Its bones landed and
shook apart where it struck the ground. Rogate fished the amulet from the now-truly-dead
creature's stiff fingers. ”What an odd and unpleasant individual,“ sniffed Renders. ”Aye,“
said Toede. ”But at least he is one I can understand."

In which Our Protagonist receives much advice from many visitors on the night before the
battle, and we witness the Last Temptation of Toede. The next two days passed quickly,
what with the preparations for war. In the case of the kender this consisted of a number
of parties and rallies, and several long explanations as to why they could not take
everything that might be useful into battle. There were a surprising number of cast-iron
frying pans that had been pressed into temporary service as maces and cudgels that now
needed to be returned to their original owners. Sometimes Toede felt he was leading a
grade-school outing as opposed to a military operation.

The others were little help. Bunniswot returned to Flotsam (over Toede's objections, but
with the approval of the others) to keep an eye on Groag and report any major troop
movements. With her father, Taywin handled the daily routine of drilling the kender troops
(making sure they all charged in the same direction). Rogate was good for pep talks but
still lousy for tactics. Charka and Renders were gathering their forces, while the
necromancer remained decidedly aloof.

Toede threw himself into the preparations with halfhearted zeal, spending his evenings
studying “his” text on the philosophy of government. Bunniswot had given him the magically
lighted stone, but even with that advantage, he made slow progress. The margins were
filled with Bunniswot- inspired gloss, explaining, for example, what Toede truly meant by
the story of the shepherdess and the three priests of Hiddukel. His explanations were
almost as dense and detailed as the text itself, though not nearly as amusing.

Throughout it all, the back of Toede's mind struggled with the nagging question: What
happens when it goes wrong this time? Not if. When. Even with a dragon high-lord's army
under his command, there was always a chance that something would go wrong. That the third
enemy warrior on the left wasn't just some peasant, but the grandson of a wizard, and in
the middle of the battle would start flinging fireballs. Or that the enemy standard was
really a gold dragon. Or that one's own troops would have a sudden case of the chills, the
gout, the mange, or dropsy.

And that was with trained troops, such as the professionals Groag would have at his beck
and hire. With this lotwell, Toede planned on using gnolls as shock troops, the kender as
skirmishers and streetfighters, and the necromancer's unnamed and unnumbered forces as the
cavalry, if the others got repulsed, to cover their retreat.

Toede supposed it could be worse. They could be gnomes. The highmaster explained the
general outline of the attack to Rogate, Taywin, Kronin, Charka, and Renders. They nodded
and agreed, since it met with their own racial tendencies. The gnolls would have smashed
themselves against the walls if they thought it would work, and the kender liked the idea
of fighting from a lot of cover. Rogate liked the idea of anything smacking of holy
vengeance, and left with Kronin to inspect the troops (again). Renders just nodded and
pretended as if he understood. None of the five other leaders noted what Toede considered
to be the hallmark of his plannamely, that it put the bulk of his army between him and
Groag's forces in Flotsam. If Groag's mercenaries and guards folded as precipitously as
Bunniswot seemed to think they would, then the city would be seized without his presence
on the front line. If, as Toede suspected, Groag gave a last-minute pep-talk in the form
of emptying the treasury's coffers for the troops, and the attack failed, then he wanted
to be as far away from the scene as possible. The assault would take place along the
south, at the ruined sections of the wall that Jugger had created and Groag had
insufficiently repaired. The western half of the city would be ignored; the idea was to
charge the Rock and taken out the existing government (meaning Groag and his flunkies)
with minimum losses.

And minimum meant Toede intended to stay alive. He flirted with the idea of just sneaking
out of camp now, heading for the dwarven cabin in the hills, and finding out later from
some passing skald who won. After all, a live coward is better than a dead hero. No, he
decided, if he did that, then probably they would win, and it would be Kronin who would
rule Flotsam and Toede who would be caught for poaching. That was the way his life (or
lives) was working out of late.

As it turned out, Toede was not the only one concerned about the survival of a rebellion
member. He was talking with Taywin over the remains of the evening meal when Charka
dropped to their eye-level with a squatting thud, interrupting their discourse. “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 silent 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