Lord Toede (19 page)

The juggernaut remained inert, but Toede could feel a vibration that seemed to rise in
intensity as he worked. Finally, he surfaced, sputtering mud and wiping the thick grime
from his eyes. “What now?” asked Jugger, and Toede detected a sense of impatience in its
voice.

“I'm getting on board,” said Toede. He took the leading edge of the line that ran under
the front roller, in his teeth, and climbed up the side of the creature. As he climbed,
the mud slid off him in clumps. Toede looped the rope beneath the rocker arm holding the
front roller, and now stood directly above the creature's face.

“Okay, give me a little power,” said Toede. He almost hurtled from his perch as the
juggernaut lunged forward, but managed to grab hold of a cast iron eyebrow. Even so, he
fell flat on his face and could taste blood. “Enough!” he bellowed almost immediately.
Jugger subsided. The rope was looped around the front roller for two revolutions. Toede
grabbed the leading end and pulled it to the back, dropping it in front of the rear
roller. In the process, he noted a human skull jammed between the body and the roller
cavity. Six-fifty-one, no doubt. “Again!” shouted Toede, then immediately, “Stop!”
Jugger's drive gave him about ten more yards of slack. “I have to get down to do your rear
wheels. Do you move in reverse?” He slipped back into the warm mud and repeated the
process on the rear roller, tying it off so that the line would gather on the roller like
a spindle or a winch. Toede pulled himself, grimy and exhausted, to the top of the
creature again. “You done?” grunted the juggernaut, sounding like metal under strain,
raring to go. “Yes,” said Toede, tugging on the lines to make sure they were taut. “Okay,”
he said, “I want you to start your rollers slowly.” Jugger let loose with a mighty bellow
and threw both rollers into “high.” The hobgoblin almost went tumbling backward off the
beast as it leapt forward. The line grew taut and held. The column that it was attached to
did not, however. It began to bow severely, pulling away from the wall in a staccato of
stone. The juggernaut edged forward as the front and rear rollers acted as winches,
pulling it out. Toede was bellowing for the juggernaut to slow down before it hurt
something. Like Toede. If Jugger could hear, it wasn't listening. It only redoubled its
effort. The column bulged farther outward, and the rope started to unravel in twangs of
sundered strands. It was only a question of which would go first. The winner (such as it
was) was the column, which erupted from the wall in a shower of granite shards and mortar.
Toede uttered a curse, thinking they would have to start all over. However, the toppling
column fell forward, directly into the path of the moving juggernaut. Toede heard the
granite boulders grate and crunch beneath the front wheels, and realized Jugger was really
moving now, erupting from the cesspool. That was when the business end of a whip cracked
above Toede's head. The end of the rope had spun through the front roller and nearly
severed the hobgoblin's head in its race to reach the back wheel. The juggernaut had
climbed out of the mud and was crushing the millennia-old stairs to a fine powder, heading
for the entrance. Toede ducked behind the large, flanged forehead of the beast. “Y'okay,
little breathing buddy?” asked the juggernaut, and Toede nodded. Then, unsure if the
creature could see him, he said, “Fine. Watch out, the corridor ahead is floodedu rgh!”
Water exploded before him as they hit the water-filled tunnel full tilt. Had the
juggernaut had a

sufficient running start, it possibly could have hydroplaned through, but as it was the
water came up to its axles and was no impediment to its progress. Thoroughly soaked, Toede
peeked up from behind the rill of the creature's forehead. They had cleared the flooded
section and were almost at the opposite end that Jugger had said the ogres ... Had sealed
with stone.

Toede dove for cover as the juggernaut hit the stone plug faster than a diving dragon, and
with greater effect. The impact slammed Toede toward the front as the rock before them
opened up like soft mud. The sharply-angled features of the juggernaut's lupine “face”
acted formidably as a plough. There was more grinding, and then the pair burst into bright
afternoon sunlight. “Hooowee!” shouted Jugger, and spun around the hill a few times,
taking a gander at the outside world. “Things have gone downhill! Thanks, little living
buddy, for springing us. You know, I really wanted to jellify you, back in there.” Toede
patted the top of the creature's head. “Maybe that's one of the signs of nobilitythe
willingness to do damn-fool things that aren't in your best interest, in exchange for
longer-term goals.” “Whatever,” said the juggernaut, already crashing through the low
underbrush. “Now, the question is, where are some other living sparks so I can make my
quota, little living buddy?” “I can take you there,” Toede offered, smiling. “And if we're
lucky there's one person in particular who will still be there. And do stop calling me
'little living buddy' I'm tired of people giving me long names. The name is Toede, and no
jokes about it. Now head for the town to the east and watch out for the hiiiilllllll!”

In which the combination of hobgoblin brains and Abyss-spawned machine prove to be more
than anyone bargained for, and Our Protagonist is allowed some say in the separation of
the quick and the dead, before joining one of those aforementioned groups himself.
Bunniswot passed a filthy rag over his forehead and leaned into the shovel. After the
argument, the stupid argument that unfortunately demonstrated to the gnolls that Renders
and the rest of them were not powerful wizards, the gnolls had melted into the swamp,
presumably to debate what to do next. The idea that they would be back with blood on their
minds had set everyone into an honest, full-fledged panic. It was one thing to hear a
rumor of attacking humanoids, another to see them up close, and then learn they are sfi7/
murderous, flesh-eating fiends.

Renders had gone out “to talk some sense into them,” and taken two of the “boys” with him.
The rest of the group had drifted off in groups of two and three, some fading into the
swamp, some heading west to take their chances with the necromancer, and others trying to
reach the main road before the gnolls closed it off. The horses had vaporized quickly in
the first moments after the argu- ment.

Bunniswot tried to organize some kind of defense, but to no avail. The only person who
even listened was the other hobgoblin, the cook, when the young scholar told him to go
fetch his friend, the dreamer called Underhill. Now the cook was overdue; perhaps he had
abandoned them as well. Bunniswot decided that the best thing to do would be to dig up the
old manuscripts, save the original rubbings, feed his notes into the fire, and see if he
could smuggle the rubbings back to civilization. Even if they could not be published now,
there might be a time for it in the future. To that end he had half the trench
reexcavatedso that it was only about three feet deep and ten feet

wideand started a modest fire that was burning merrily. Bunniswot threw a small log on the
blaze. He was sweating more than he ever had in his life, and wondered if it was heat or
fear that drove him. The late autumn sun was merciless. He passed the rag over his face,
wincing as it touched the bloated, bruised side of his body where Charka had struck him.
The bleeding from his nose had stopped, but the swelling in his face pounded with every
beat of his heart.

That was when he saw them, emerging from the forest into the now-deserted camp. There
seemed to be about twice as many gnolls as before, and Bunniswot thought perhaps they had
gathered reinforcements, just in case these humans were powerful wizards. The returned
attackers fell upon the empty tents, tearing them down with their bare claws and howling
dark curses.

Then they noticed Bunniswot, and suddenly it didn't seem to have been such a smart idea to
have lingered behind. Bunniswot took a step backward, then a second step, and he would
have taken a third were it not for the fact that he had already reached the edge of his
own trench on the first step. The second sent him hurtling backward into the soft earth,
as dirt-covered papers erupted skyward.

Bunniswot looked up, seeing the gnolls silhouetted against the sun. The largest one
present wore Charka's metal skull-piece, but it was not Charka, he noticed. That was a
scant solace as the flint- headed spear this one carried was pointed at his chest.
Bunniswot shouted what he thought were some well-prepared last words, but the
spear-chucking gnoll was not paying attention.

Suddenly, nearby, there was the sound of something crashing through the birch trees at
high velocity, and an object with an impressively huge shadow passed directly over the
trench and the prostrate scholar. The spear-threatening gnoll barely had time to look up
and twist his face into something that resembled alarm before the shadow passed and the
gnoll's spear bounced into the trench, the flint head crushed and the wood splintered.
“Six-fifty-two!” came a deep, rumbling voice that could be heard over the sound of
crashing wood and screaming gnolls. There was another, high-pitched voice mixed in that
was lost in the deeper, deadly counting. Whump! “Six-fifty-three!” Whump!
“Six-fifty-four.” Whump! “Six-fifty-hang on, we just winged him!” Whump! “There we go!
Six-fifty-five!” Bunniswot cautiously peered over the edge of the trench to witness the
ongoing devastation. The agent of destruction, mowing down gnolls right, left, and center,
looked like a siege engine, the type that was normally lugged up by invading armies to
storm the local castle. Except that this particular engine lacked the units of troops that
were normally used to ferry it, and was moving about on its own. No, not completely on its
own. Perched on its back was Underhill, and his was the higher voice that Bunniswot had
heard amidst the rampage. Underhill would beckon and shout, and the great runaway siege
engine would spin around and roll through enemy gnolls, toppling trees, flattening tents,
and crushing everything in its path. Whenever it struck another gnoll, a great shout would
go up, as if the True Gods were keeping tally of the battle. The engine was effective, but
nondiscriminating in its targets. The device struck an ogre plinth dead on, and the
aeon-old carving vaporized in a puff of stone dust. Some gnolls had chosen to hide behind
the plinths for protection, while their wiser brethren had dashed for the swamp at the
first sight of the flame-red creature. The siege engine plowed through stone columns and
gnolls as if they were one being, and with double the glee. “Six-sixty!” It bellowed as it
caught a gnoll cowering behind a plinth and decimated both. Bunniswot was delighted to see
that Underhill had not only rescued himself from the temple, but had brought aid. Still,
the destruction of the plinths was too high a price to pay, and the gnolls seemed in full
flight already. The red-haired scholar struggled to his feet and waved, using both arms,
and shouting for Underhill to direct the behemoth elsewhere. As Underhill saw him, the
hobgoblin's face lit up, if the combination of shock and fear could be

considered “lit up” in humanoid terms. The hobgoblin said nothing, but motioned, fingers
splayed, palms downward, raising and lowering his hands frantically. There are times when,
under stress, an individual cannot understand a common sentence or a particular written
word, or is confounded by such simple matters as whether a door opens inward or outward.
This was one such time for Bunniswot, and he stared dumbly at the mounted hobgoblin,
trying to piece together what he meant by ... ah! He must be signaling Bunniswot to get
down.

By that time the device had turned to face the entrenched scholar, and Bunniswot realized
that the horrible visage at the front of the siege engine was also the horrible visage in
the temple. So it was not a siege engine at all. The creature spun its huge rollers and
snapped off two more pillars while clos-

ing the distance between itself and the terrified scholar. Bunniswot swooned, and in the
swooning saved his own life, for he toppled backward. Had he tried to dive sideways, or
even engage his brain in the question of what to do, he would have been too late, and the
Abyss-engine would have crushed him. As it was, he came to, alert, as soon as the heavy
shadow passed over him again. A deep voice vibrated through the soil. “Missed that one.
Hang on while I hit 'im again.” Bunniswot thought about rising and running, but caught
himself. Instead he flattened himself further, trying to burrow his body into the deep,
twice-turned soil of the trench. The shadow passed a second time, very quickly, and then a
third, this time from the side. Each time the scholar was convinced the entire trench was
going to collapse on him, but each time the trench held, and the shadow passed. Finally
the great engine rolled over the trench and parked, leaving Bunniswot directly underneath
in its inky black shadow. The scholar willed himself immobile. “What now?” said
Underhill's voice. “I can grade down to him,” said the engine, in a voice so low that it
made Bunniswot's teeth ache. “And that would take?” asked Underhill. “Hmmmm.” The engine
made a sound like a gnomish device. “Figuring soft soil, about a week. Less if it rains,
little... ah, Toede.” Toede? thought Bunniswot. As in Highmaster Toede? “Sounds boring,”
said Underhill/Toede, sounding more pensive and worried than bored. Bunniswot wondered
which one of the two was trying to crush him to death. “And you have a better idea?”
grumbled the engine. “Uh-huh,” said the hobgoblin. “A place where you can make your quota
in a day's work.” “I'm game,” said the engine. “The only thing,” added the hobgoblin, “is
that there is a special individual I want you to make number one thousand. A particularly
large and nasty frog.” Again the rumbling. “Don't know if it counts. Frogs don't talk, and
that's a basic rule to counting.” “Oh, this one talks, and plots, and schemes,” said the
hobgoblin. “Promise me you'll go after this one and I'll guide you to Flotsam.” The engine
grumbled a little, something about a “sure thing” right here versus a “maybe” tomorrow.
The hobgoblin explained, patted, and cajoled, and suddenly Bun-niswot knew that this was
Toede the legendary, venomous, dangerous, twice-dead Toede. The engine rolled off the
trench, and there was more crashing as birch trees and plinths snapped in its path.
Bunniswot sat up carefully, ready to fling himself to the ground in case the great engine
reversed itself. But no, it was pounding its northerly way up the path, trampling a wide
swath with it. And on its back was the hobgoblin Toede, who turned and waved as they
disappeared into the brush. Bunniswot's knees failed him. He had to try several times to
organize himself in a sitting position on the edge of the trench. He was surrounded by the
remnants of the camp. Everything the scholars had abandoned was now smashed, along with a
dozen extremely two-dimensional and soil-impacted gnoll corpses. The engine had been
thorough in its devastation, in that not a single plinth seemed to have survived
unscathed. I could have died, he said to himself. And you were spared, he answered

himself. By Highmaster Toede, he added. Bunniswot looked around at the wreckage, and then
rose, walking to the fire. He kicked at it until all the larger sticks had been scattered,
and stomped on the hot ashes until they were dying embers. Then he returned to the trench,
grasping his shovel and shoving the rag in his pocket. He began to uncover the last
surviving words of the ogres, his unwanted life's work that almost had become his death's
work. There was not a great deal of opportunity for chat during the journey from the camp
to Flotsam. This was due both to a limited range of discussion, and to the fact that the
juggernaut had been designed without any idea that anyone would ever care to ride it. As a
result, it lacked such modern amenities as seats, windows, springs, or intentional
handholds. Toede found that he could manage by a tactic he called “hanging on for dear
life,” which worked fairly well. He shouted directions whenever he could, bellowing over
the noise of Jugger's passage. Once or twice Jugger had to slow to reasonable speeds to
learn which way to proceed, but as soon as Toede said anything, or even motioned, the
infernal device was off with a commotion. It was early dusk when they hit Flotsam.
Jugger's total had reached the six-nineties by that point, aided by a handful of farmers,
a pair of elves, one or two stragglers who could have been among Renders's fleeing
scholars, a few gnolls, and two creatures that Toede thought counted but Jugger said were
undead zombies and as such were “gimmies.” As they topped the last rise, Toede noted that
the low-slung sun had set the golden fields alight with a crimson hue. Ahead, the city
hugged the coast, as if seeking consolation from the blood-red bay. Jugger only growled
and muttered, “Walls.” Then the front of the creature bucked upward as the rear roller bit
into the road, and they lurched forward in a blur of red-hued speed and hobgoblin curses.
Two hay wains and a traveler's pushcart later, they burst through the Southwest Gate,
sending splinters of both the heavy oak doors and the two guards raining in all
directions. It was late in the day, and those street merchants who had stayed late to make
one more sale, or those townsfolk who tarried behind to eke out one last bargain had just
enough time to look up, startled, as the runaway siege engine hurtled down on them,
leaving a wake of smashed bodies, broken ironwork, and crushed cobblestones. Jugger's body
count put his take in the low seven hundreds. “Gate!” bellowed Toede. “Gate to the east!”
Toede meant the Rock Gate leading to the headland, but the juggernaut swung a hard right
(through several not-abandoned buildings), and toward the Southeast Gate. Given that
Jugger was a stranger in town, it was an understandable mistake. As a result, Toede and
his infernal device went slashing along the inner perimeter of the wall Gildentongue had
erected almost a year earlier, taking out interior buttresses and supports, then weaving
into the city again as the wall crashed behind them. Toede wondered if the creature would
get full credit for those killed indirectly by collapsing buildings and crushing walls, or
only partial. Figuring the politics of the Abyss, it was probably all or nothing. The two
guards at the Southeast Gate had enough time to hear the disaster approaching. One fled
his position, the other, the one with a comet-shaped scar on his face, turned to gape and
became number seven-six-three as the juggernaut crashed back through the gate and found
itself outside the city. Toede beat on the unyielding surface of Jugger's body and
screamed. “No, we're heading the wrong direction!” Jugger rumbled, “You said the eastern
gate.” “North and east,” screamed Toede, his face turning pink. “The gate to the upper
city, to the headland!” “Right, hang on,” roared Jugger. “I'll take care of it and pick up
the spare as well....” The guard who ran was paralleling the southern edge of the wall,
and shortly was made one with the city wall he was charged with protecting. The wall
itself bulged inward and flew apart in a cascade of mortar and loose stone. Poor
workmanship, thought Toede, as the first measly arrows of defense started peppering
Jugger's