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 Gildentongue 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 visitors-a 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 center-in 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 back to examining and writing, as if Toede had never interrupted him.

One thing is certain, thought Toede as he walked back to Groag, there is more here than meets the eye-human, ogre, or otherwise. Toede could smell the sweaty fear on the human when Bunniswot suspected, briefly, that Toede could decipher the glyphs.

It was two days' ride back to Flotsam, and Toede figured that gave him two days to convince Groag to head somewhere else, with the money and horses. One day, actually, since if Groag could not be convinced, Toede would sneak off in the dead of night without him. If Flotsam was under the control of Hopsloth, it was among the last places he wanted to go without a small army. Living nobly is one thing, but dying nobly is quite another.

The path was wide enough for the pair to ride two-abreast on their short, sturdy horses. For most of the afternoon they rode in silence. The shadows grew long as they rode in the shade of the western hills. Toede felt the farther the distance from the camp, the likelier that Groag would throw in with him. It wasn't as though they were kender slaves, after all.

It was Groag who broke the silence. "I suppose I should thank you."

Toede scowled, thinking of Charka. 'Thank me?"

"You kept the draconian from killing me," said Groag. "I heard that. You called to it."

"A moment of weakness," said Toede, speaking the truth as far as it went.

"And you died in combat with it, in a burning pyre," sighed the smaller hobgoblin. "Sacrificed yourself so I might live."

"Ah," said Toede, playing with the idea of letting Groag think of him more heroically, but reluctantly abandoning it. It seemed more noble to be honest, particularly if it would help him scare Groag into going along with him. 'To be truthful, I didn't die fighting Gildentongue."

"Then you've been alive all this-" Groag started, but Toede interrupted.

"I died," said he, "but not from Gildentongue. I was… digested, for lack of a better word." Groag looked at him blankly. "Hopsloth ate me," Toede added flatly.

"Oh, my," said Groag, his voice a mixture of concern and amusement.

"It seems," continued Toede levelly, "that the assassin we fought at the Jetties had been sent by Hopsloth, not Gildentongue. My mount was… less than pleased with the idea of my glorious return, and when the devoted gate guards reported that someone claiming to be me had reappeared in the city, he took what he thought was appropriate action."

"Dumber than a bag of lampreys, you said?" chided Groag.

"You learn new things each and every day," responded Toede.

"That might explain what happened later," said Groag. Toede shot him a questioning look, and Groag continued. "After my recovery, I told my story to the scholars, or what I thought had happened. About your return from the dead, and our misadventures, and what we discovered in your manor. But I didn't know that Hopsloth had… ah… eaten you." Again the mix of bemusement and interest. "I thought you died in combat with the aurak.

"Anyway," Groag said, "with Hopsloth in charge, there have been more disappearances. Like with Gildentongue, but more important people. The priests serving Hopsloth would denounce one person or another, and a few days later, they'd be gone."

"That sounds stupid enough to be Hopsloth's doing," agreed Toede. "He might as well hang a sign out in front of the city saying: Tyrant begging to be iced by adventurers—Heroes of the Lance preferred."

By now the darkness was almost complete, and while the hobgoblins were not totally inconvenienced by the gathering gloom, the horses were becoming less sure in their steps. The pair stopped beneath a particularly large oak with a modicum of clear terrain at its base. Neither one sought to make a fire, since that was a human custom, and they had slept in worse conditions without benefit of bedrolls.

As the pair bedded down, Toede said, "Groag, do you think we're doing the right thing? Going back to Flotsam, I mean. It doesn't sound particularly healthy."

Groag was already bunched up in a small coil. "As right as anything. I mean, if you don't go in announcing who you are, we can likely get in and out without any problem."

"We could just take the horses and the pouch of coins and head west," said Toede, as if the idea had just occurred to him. "Have you ever been in the Solace area? Nice land, and the humans are easy to control."

There was a silence, then, "If we did that, then the scholars would probably starve."

No great loss to the world, thought Toede. He weighed his options, trying to berate Groag into joining him versus just slipping away in the dead of night. At length he said, "You're probably right," and stretched out, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Goodnight, Groag."

"Goodnight, Toede," said his companion. No title. Not lord, not highmaster, but just Toede. Toede scowled.

Toede stared above his head at the dark tracery of the bare oak branches against the night sky. He waited until Groag's breathing was regular and deep, then quietly rolled out of his own bedding.

He checked Groag and frowned, for the smaller hobgoblin had the pouch of coins clutched in his hands and resting under his chin. He'd have to abandon the money, unless he killed his companion. That was a tempting idea, but probably unnecessary under the circumstances. Groag was snoring loudly, and was deeply asleep. At length, Toede decided to take both horses and equipment, since he could sell or eat one if need be.

Besides, thought Toede, this way Groag could still get the supplies for his precious scholars. It would just take a few more days. Not that they couldn't stand to lose a few pounds.

Toede quietly untied the horses and led them a short way from the oak. One of them whickered softly but followed without further complaint. Toede was about to saddle up and ride off when all the hellish Abyss seemed to rip open and dump its contents into his life.

The first thing he was aware of was the scream, or screams, that came from all sides. Blood-curdling howls that would have frozen the blood of a lycanthrope. Then they were all around him, huge creatures swarming over him.

Had Toede mounted up and tried to ride away, he would have gotten fifteen, maybe twenty feet before a dozen spears pierced him. He didn't have the chance anyway; he was immediately swept up by a huge set of furry arms, then thrown roughly on the ground. He heard the horses neigh in panic as the wind was knocked out of him.

Then three spear points pushed roughly on his chest.

Toede looked up into the faces of three large gnolls, their faces caked with reddish mud in lines and swirls. A larger gnoll stood behind them, bellowing.

"King of Little Dead Frogs!" shouted Charka. "Charka thought you starve by now!"

Kill me now, thought Toede, careful not to voice his desire.