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.
Chapter 12
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
