Lord Toede (5 page)

eyes burned with vengeance. “Teach you to take a shot at me!” Groag perforce dropped the
chain and lost his grip on the log. The force of the water dragged Toede downstream and
pulled Groag in as well. Taywin grabbed for him, but her fingers closed on empty air as
the pair of chained hobgoblins disappeared in the torrent. “Serves them right,” muttered
the guard, tenderly touching his swelling lower jaw. Taywin's response was most unladylike
(and is best not quoted, as the main thrust of the tale had moved suddenly and
precipitously downstream). The low falls below the fallen maple was little more than a
bump, and after constricting into a still- smaller chute, passed through a pair of
hydraulics and into a wide, fast-moving pool. Groag's head broke the water briefly, sank
again, then crested a second time. Dog-paddling madly in his chains, he could barely keep
afloat. Groag felt a tug from the connecting chain. “Toede?” Groag asked, and was rewarded
with a mouthful of water as he sank slightly. The small hobgoblin sputtered and
dog-paddled harder. He heard nothing in response, though whether that was because of the
thunder of the river or an aftereffect of Miles's well-aimed rock was unclear. Highmaster
Toede surfaced three feet away, water streaming from his nostrils in a fine spray. He
looked angry, and a little afraid. “You all right?” sputtered Groag, gaining another
mouthful of cold river water. Toede raised an iron-shod wrist and pointed at one of the
banks, slightly upstream. Groag tried to shake his head. “Upstream? Better try to make
land a little downstream.” Toede pointed again, frantically. “If we go downstream, then we
have the river going with ...” Groag's voice died out once he realized that he could not
hear his own words over the increasing thunderthe sound of water falling from a very high
place to a very low place. Then it suddenly became obvious why Toede wanted to swim
against the current. Groag began dog- paddling madly alongside him. Both were extremely
aware that the surrounding banks of the river were slipping past them, and the thunder was
growing louder, until it reverberated in their very bones. The river erupted over a high
barrier of hard shale, through a narrow passage no more than five arm-spans across. The
force of the water was such that it flung itself out ten feet into the air before gravity
finally got its due and pulled it into a cascading plume of white tinged with rainbow
drops reflecting the afternoon sun. Also spewed out this distance were two humanoid
figures connected by a length of metal chain. One of them, the smaller one, was screaming
at the top of his little lungs. The falls thundered into a quiet, wide pool of deep green.
The sound of the two figures striking the water was lost, and the ripple of their splash
erased by the time those ripples reached the shore. Some time later, the two hobgoblins
crawled onshore, still chained together and making small motions with their arms and legs.
Both were bloody and battered, but still breathing. Water streamed from Toede's nostrils
as Groag panted and cursed between openmouthed gulps of air. “We're bloody doomed,” Groag
panted. “We can't run. We can barely walk. Every kender in the countryside is going to
want our backsides for breakfast, and I can't say I blame them. That was the kender
leader's daughter you attacked, and she's going to see us put up on spikes once the guard
tells her it wasn't our intent to rescue her, and we can't move with all this iron, and
why are you smiling that damned smile?” Indeed, throughout Groag's tirade, the hobgoblin
high-master had been smiling beatifically, a canary-digesting feline sort of look. After
Groag shouted at him, he paused a beat, then stuck out his tongue. Resting on that pale
pink expanse was an iron key, until recently worn around the neck of Taywin Kroninsdau.
Toede held the key up to the sun and laughed wearily. “I hope you don't feel like
resting,” he said. “I want to be in Flotsam by nightfall.”

In which Our Protagonist discovers that time has not stood still for him in his hometown,
and fully realizes his own mortality, the fickle nature of those who are ruled, and the
nature of his opposition. In actuality, it took three days to reach Flotsam, caused first
by a miscalculation on Groag's part as to direction, and second by a necessary evasion of
a kender hunting party. The latter was seen at a distance, armed with spears and
accompanied by their golden and black hunting hounds. Toede recognized neither kender nor
dogs, but thought it the better part of valor to evade them.

The fact of the matter was, had the hobgoblins headed in the right direction at the
outset, the kender, who set out for Flotsam immediately, would have caught up with their
quarry. But since Toede and Groag got slightly mislaid, the kender patrols made it to
Flotsam and back before Toede and Groag even neared the vicinity.

The second night was spent in an abandoned cottage that had not seen human habitation
since before the War of the Lance. There was no food other than the lizards that Groag
rousted from beneath the collapsed bed. There were a few long human-sized cloaks, easily
altered by the rusted but serviceable knives abandoned in a stuck drawer. Toede had seen,
lived through, and dealt out worse during the war.

But Toede could not sleep, for Groag snored a saw-touched rhapsody across from him. He
considered smothering him with a pillow, but Groag's likely uses in the future stayed his
hand. Also, there were no pillows in the cottage. The long hike had given him a chance to
think about what Groag had said. For six months Toede had been gone. His armor and
clothing, while beaten and singed, neither wore nor smelled like he had been wearing them
for six months. Perhaps he had been dead. Or put into cold storage for six months, which
was one and the same for all intents and purposes. But howand to what end?

To return and live like a noble. Clouds passed over the wafer-thin sliver of Lunitari, and
Toede thought of the shadowy giants and the promise they had made to him in his dreams. He
would be treated like a noble. Well, obviously not at the moment, in the tumbledown
cottage, but once they reached civilization. Once they reached Flotsam.

After they reached Flotsam, then what? Obviously, when confronted with a highmaster in the
flesh, Gilden-tongue would have to step down. Although since Toede wasn't truly a high
lord, officially recognized as such, there might be question of his right to rule. The
perils that a lack of nobility caused were obvious to the hobgoblin.

Perhaps he would have to call in his favors with the true highlords, and the dragonarmy
itself, still billeted in the northern half of the city. Ah, but Gildentongue always had a
way with the great reptiles, being draconian himself. There might have to be a few bloody
discussions in the barracks, but in the end, Toede had a dragon (of sorts) in Hopsloth,
and Gildentongue would be vanquished.

Perhaps after all this, the highlords would grant him a real, permanent title, and award
him Flotsam as his enfiefment. His own duchy. Perhaps that's what the dream meant. Duchy
of Flotsam. Duke of Flotsam. Had a nice ring to it, he thought, leaning against the
windowsill.

He was still writing his acceptance speech and ordering his first series of retributive
executions when Groag shook him awake. Dawn had broken, and far in the distance, there
were dogs baying. Now was the time to move on, Toede thought, to claim his rightful
throne. The land broadened quickly into the low rolling hills that surrounded Flotsam,
ending finally in the bay upon which the city was built. It was, at last, territory
familiar to Toede. They approached from

the southeast, trundling over the low hills that flanked the city on that side. The hills
had mostly been denuded, noted Toede, and rich fields of barley and wheat and plots of
vegetables had replaced the wildlife and underbrush. The fields were brown earth sprinkled
with the first tufts of green from the spring. When he had last ridden through the land,
the grain had been a rich harvest gold, and the trees were heavy with fruit. It seemed a
lifetime ago. As they topped the last low rise overlooking the city, Toede wondered what
else had changed. The pair of footsore travelers stopped and regarded Flotsam, sprawled
out before them like a drunkard curled on the pavement. A low miasma hung over the citythe
sum of collected exhalations, smokes, fumes, and fires of the inhabitants that even the
steady breeze off Blood Bay could do nothing to diminish. The subtle stench of pirates,
merchants, craftsmen, middlemen, travelers, adventurers, soldiers, entertainers,
barbarians, and priests tickled his nostrils even at this distance. Toede let out a
contented sigh. Nothing had changed after all. Except... “Groag,” said the highmaster with
a frown, “who decided to repair the wall?” Indeed, the city wall, more of a ten-foot-high
apology to advancing armies than any real impediment to a concentrated attack, had been
restored. The wall ran along on its original foundation, forming a long, looping enclosure
that cradled the harbor from southern edge to northern tip. The Southwest Gate was before
them, framed by thirty-foot towers. A small trickle of wagons lined up as they passed by
the guards. Toede squinted and could see similar traffic snags at the Southeast Gate on
his right and the North Gate across the way. “Uh, Gildentongue,” mewled his companion,
figuring (correctly) that this was a proper answer for any mischief committed in Toede's
absence. “Hmpf,” snorted the highmaster. “If Gildentongue is really in charge, it shows
what he knows. Why bother with walls when you have a wing of dragons camped out within
your city? Typical Draconian overkill. No sense of subtlety in the least.” “Well, now that
you mention it...” ventured Groag in his meekest voice. Toede flexed an eyebrow, his
time-honored method of recognizing a flunky about to deliver bad news. Groag kept his eyes
focused on a spot two inches in front of Toede's boots. “I had heard from Miss
TaywinKronin's daughter that the dragonarmy had ... uh ... relocated. Up the Rugged Coast
and closer to the ogre territories. Better recruits and all was what they said, but the
kender laughed and elbowed each other in the ribs, and I guessed it was too difficult to
maintain the army inside the city walls. Rebels and sabotage and desertion and ... all
that.” The highmaster grumbled deeply, and Groag fell back two spaces. The growl broke
into discernible words. “Then what you're saying is that there is no dragonarmy in
Flotsam?” Groag nodded, then he gave a most irritating, almost kenderish shrug of his
shoulders, and added, “That's what I heard, at least.” “So much for Plan A,” muttered
Toede. Louder, to Groag, he said, “Is there anything else that you should tell me about my
domain that I don't already know?” Again the shrug. “I have been held by the kender for
some time now, Highmaster,” said Groag. “I only heard about the dragonarmy changing its
base because the kender themselves threw a great party when it happened. Seems they felt
responsible for the move. I remember the feastthere were twelve geese to be stuffed, and
two full stags...” Toede waved the rendition of the menu aside. “The barracks are empty,
then?” “Well, they're probably used for warehouses and things like that.” “But the rest of
the city is still as it was. No temples to Habbakuk or Mishakal? No gods or kindly-
but-powerful wizards taking up residence within earshot of the gates?” Groag looked up,
hurt. “Other than some new cult-thingie the kender mentioned Gildentongue is wrapped up
in, no. I mean, I don't think so,” he said, stressing the word 'think' as if it implied
true cogitation and analysis. “And my own luxurious manor house still stands?” “I suppose
so,” muttered Groag.

“And the rock upon which it rests has not been washed out to sea?” Groag shot back, “I do
not know, O Wise Highmaster. Perhaps the next time I get captured, I'll arrange in advance
for a bard to visit with the current claque?” Groag's face tensed for a moment, then
returned to its normal befuddled state. “I mean . . . Milord, you must understand if I am
not fully up to date.” Toede smiled, and for once it was not a wicked smile. It was the
first indication of spine Groag had shown since Toede encountered him in the kender
encampment. Toede was afraid his companion had been swept away by a world of goose-cooking
and poetry. Groag seemed to be regaining his old manner, now that he was restored to
basking in Toede's illustrious presence. Well enough. If Gildentongue proved unwilling to
step aside, Toede might need someone with the fortitude to jam a knife between the
draconian's ribs. At the moment, until he could gauge his own popular support, Toede had
an army of one, and that oneGroaghad to suit. Groag returned the smile uneasily, as if he
were unsure whether the highmaster was laughing with him or at him. When no immediate
rebuff came from his superior, Groag relaxed. Toede looked out at his city, still
stench-ridden but wrapped behind a new cloak of stone. Even so, he was home. “Well,
there's nothing for it, then,” he said. “Let's go tell Gildentongue that his master has
returned.” Wrapped about a deep-water harbor on the western shore of Blood Bay, Flotsam
was so named for its red-tinged beaches and proximity to the larger (and more
crimson-tinged) Blood Sea. The original city was built from the ruins of Istar (and other
pre-Cataclysm sites now covered by the scarlet ocean) that had washed up on the new
shoreline. The city's name reflected both the original junk used to make the houses and
the nature of its population: a collection of drifters, refugees, would-be warriors,
fleeing fighters, leaderless mercenaries, merchants, corsairs, and all manner of
middlemen. The great majority of the city evinced a hodgepodge of styles slapped together
with whatever construction supplies were available at the moment. The most noticeable
exception was the eastern part of the town, where a rugged headland jutted into the sea,
forming the safe barrier of Flotsam Harbor. Here on “The Rock” were the most beautiful
homes, the finest inns, the best taverns, and of course, raised just a little above all
the others, the resplendent manor of Highmaster Toede himself. During the war Flotsam had
proved a haven for rebels and dragon highlords alike, under the supposedly ever-watchful
eye of Highmaster Toede. Until the day of his disastrous hunt, Toede had ruled with a
combination of carrot and stick, offering benefits to those who abided by his rule of law,
and punishment to those who did not. All the players quickly learned what could and could
not be done within Toede's city. Trade caravans from the inland territories made Flotsam
their terminus for Blood Sea cities, and the city attracted those men and women looking
for easy coins. Toede's court was full of them: sycophants and inventors and adventurers
with all manner of honeyed words and magical maps and wonderful ideas. In short,
individuals who made Groag look like a pillar of wisdom and strength. Except Gildentongue.
He had always been a tricky one, Toede reflected, even then. Always dealing with the
dragonarmies and the highlords. Always playing politics. And subtle, always subtle, such
that Toede could never pin anything underhanded or treacherous on him. Toede mused about
how Gildentongue ought to resignon bended knee or with a flurry of blades. The surrender
approach would be much preferred, he reflected. He pictured himself striding into his
reception hall, with Gildentongue sitting there, signing some meaningless proclamation.
The pen would fall like a lead weight from Gildentongue's hand, and the draconian's scaled
face would react first with shock, then anger as the consequences of his misrule sank into
his reptilian brain. Reaching for a handy halberd and uttering a great curse, Toede's
unworthy successor might try to charge him. Gildentongue would take all of three steps
before he was cut down by the loyal guardsmen, who would then drop as one on bended knee
before their master: Toede, Earl of Flotsam. No, that's not right, thought Toede.
Gildentongue should by rights be kept aliveif barely. Gildentongue was of the Aurak race,
and dying draconians had a nasty habit of exploding. Yes,

Gildentongue would be allowed to survive, and Toede would order the manor guards to
perform a few experiments on the traitorous and falsehearted courtier. And chefs. Let's
not forget the manor chefs. Toede giggled at the thought. Groag shot him a sharp look, but
seeing that the highmaster's eyes were not entirely focused, decided he was not the
subject of Toede's musing. The highmaster sighed with relief as they passed the short line
of caravan wagons awaiting inspection and entry to the city of Flotsam.

Or tried to, at least. The guards were letting foot traffic pass unimpeded through a
smaller door alongside the main gate. When the two hobgoblins tried to enter, however,
each of the flanking guards dropped his spear low, barring their path. “And where are you
going, Frog-face?” said the one on the right.

Toede looked up, surprised by this mode of address. The guard was human, of course, and
had that gritty, unwashed nature that seemed an unwritten requisite for those humans in
the service of Takhisis. Both the speaker and his companion were totally unfamiliar to
Toede. Nothing unusual, since turnover was always high in the highmaster's service, but
this one Toede would have remembered. The guard had a scar running down the front of his
face, from above the right temple across the nose. The puckered line ended in an explosion
of infected acne and scars on his left cheek. It looked as if someone had tried to carve a
comet on his face. His eyes were cold and lusterless.

Toede returned the glare, feeling his own face flush with irritation. “I have business
within,” he said flatly, trying to brush aside the spears. The obstructing weapons held
steady in front of him. “Not here you don't, Hob-gob,” snarled Comet-face. “Since when is
Flotsam a closed city?” Toede pulled himself up to his full height and tried to stare down
the guard. In his full regalia, mounted on Hopsloth-back, and backed by a unit of
handpicked warriors, he was usually effective. Backed only by Groag, and the pair of them
dressed in ragged, badly cut cloaks, the effect was severely lessened.