Lord Toede v-5 Read online

  Lord Toede

  ( Villains - 5 )

  Jeff Grubb

  Jeff Grubb

  Lord Toede

  Prologue

  In which we do not meet Our Protagonist, exactly, but in which we witness a wager being made in lands far from our own.

  The face of the Abyss was the face of its goddess. Takhi-sis was the land, and the land reflected her moods. A light, pleased smile became an earthquake, a furrowed brow a new rise of mountains, a sudden irritation a thunderstorm of blood and dead creatures sweeping across her features.

  And yet the face of this goddess was inhabited, for life crawled and scrabbled and clawed its way across her surface like fleas and mites across a seasoned world-traveler. Here the fiends prowled, the tanar'ri bathed in the blood of their victims, and the yugolotjhs capered with gleeful intensity. Here the moondarks sweptMow, hoping to snare some rising soul from the terrain, and the ground roiled with the passage of the bulette-liches, their bone-white carapaces knifing the soil from below. Here the pindizzers spun in their dervish-dance, the kothmew sharpened their scissorlike mandibles, and the eloda, blinded, hunted the damned by the reek of their souls.

  Here in all its deadly splendor was the Abyss. For two observers, looking out on the blasted landscape, it was home. By rights, said observers should have been working on some soul-wrenching plot or Krynn-destroying plan, but even fiends from the lower planes take their five-minute breaks, their long lunches, their extended afternoons, hoping that their Abyssal masters do not need them (or at least do not notice them missing). Were these observers a pair of dwarven roustabouts, human idlers, or kender finders, no further notice would be taken of them, but they were not dwarves or kender or even men, but abishai, the chosen of Takhisis, the most mischievous and foul of the creations under her command. The pair resembled lizards, after a fashion, with long, fanged, crocodile heads and thick batlike wings, and they resembled men in their upright stance and cognizant eyes. Blood sweated from their scaled black hides and hissed as it struck the ground. They regarded the Abyss as servants would their master's house, with respectful awe and not a small bit of personal pride. Indeed, if not for them, who would look after things, keep matters in order, dust the odd crevice, and whatnot?

  One abishai was long and lean, the result of too many turns of the rack. He had to stoop, his long knuckles grazing the ground, to bring his soft, whispering voice to the ears of others. He was one of the Abbots of Misrule, and his portfolio was to journey into the world of Krynn and dispense bad advice and terrible truths. By rights he should have been in Taladas, nosing softly into the dreams of a corrupt accountant the evening before a surprise audit, assuring said coin-counter that his embezzlement was perfect and none would catch him, so why not take a little bit more?

  Instead, this particular abbot was taking a break, the dark equivalent of sneaking out to the alley for a few puffs with the mates. The tall reptilian creature surveyed the pandemonium around him and let out a contented sigh, stretching like a cat to his full height. "Another day in paradise," he said. His companion was shorter and more potbellied. This abishai's task was to maintain the souls of the truly and justly damned, the most evil of the evil, to contain them and prevent any chance of rivals to their dark mistress arising in the pits of the Abyss. For Takhisis knew the deadly danger of evil turning upon itself, and brooked no competition. Making sure, that was the fat abishai's task, he who was called the Castellan of the Condemned. The weight of this task was only exceeded by the sheer spine-numbing boredom of it all. The Castellan of the Condemned did not dwell on his lot in eternity, the fact that he remained in place while his companion got to jolly-ride about, spreading bad advice. Not often, at least.

  At the moment, the Castellan just grunted and waved a claw at a nearby hillock. "Looks like we have a tourist."

  The taller abishai grunted in agreement. A bright light had manifested halfway up the low rise, as if a star of pure radiance had been brought to the surface of the land. Its brilliance cast hard shadows on the surroundings, and the lesser creatures of the Abyss, unaccustomed to such a glow, fled squealing from its purity, tunneling deep into lairs or tumbling downhill to darker, more secure locations.

  At the center of the radiance was the glittering white and steel form of a mortal, human-sized, with a great sword of solid crystal.

  "Paladin?" guessed the taller abishai, shading his eyes with his overlong knuckles.

  "Seems as if," said the shorter one, squinting intalhe light. "Definitely not subtle."

  "Storming the gates of the Abyss never is," said the other. "Here comes the first of the Heavy Brigade, representing our team."

  The bright light was eclipsed, if only for a moment, by the rising form of a charging fiend. A large specimen, such fiends served as the pit bulls of the Abyss, and this one had horns that would make a minotaur blush in inadequacy.

  The observers did not see the paladin move, only the bright afterimage as the crystal sword traced a lightning-like arc through the fiend. The pit-creature fell away in identical halves, carved down the center.

  "That had to smart," said the Abbot. His companion grunted in agreement.

  A second fiend took the first one's place and met a similar fate as the first, this one's separation being horizontal as opposed to vertical.

  "Looks vorpal to me," said the squat Castellan.

  The taller one nodded, though neither showed any movement toward the scene of battle. "Bet he shan't last five minutes," said the Abbot.

  "Bet he can," said the shorter abishai. "He's got the armor, fche sword, and the attitude. How about a cup of saint's blood against a breeze of a mortal's summer?"

  The Castellan's tall companion nodded, his crocodile-like head turning the nod into an exaggerated bob. "Bet taken. Starting now."

  The pair made themselves as comfortable as possible on a broken pile of smoldering rocks and watched the battle unfold. The Abbot of Misrule counted the seconds off on his fingers. Ten, then ten again, then ten again and so forth, ticking off the time.

  Across the low valley, the legions of the Abyss marshaled themselves against the invader. Two more fiends tried to bring the new arrival down and were rewarded for their efforts with lost limbs and severed heads. A yugoloth met a similar fate. An abishai (for not all were malingerers) tried to sneak up from behind and aloft and was skewered for its effort.

  "Was that the Padre of Pain?" asked the short observer.

  "Probably," said the tall one. "He's always sucking up for attention and battlefield merits. One minute."

  Two more yugoloths fell in quick succession, along with another abishai whose blood-red wings were severed from his body. A wormlike beshak wrapped around the paladin's leg and exploded in a million shards from proximity to so much goodness.

  "Two minutes," said the Abbot.

  The ground erupted beneath the paladin, and the chiti-nous maw of a bulette-liche broke the surface, seeking to swallow him in one gulp. The shining paladin jumped on the beast's snout, driving the sword deep into the decaying rot that was the creature's brain. The undead land-shark gave a sharp spasm and perished immediately. The paladin retreated up the beast's crenelated back as more creatures poured out of their lairs.

  "I think he's dimming," said the Castellan, a note of concern in his voice.

  "That's just blood covering the armor. Three minutes," said the Abbot.

  A dark wave rose as the combined mass attack of twisted creatures sought to overwhelm the paladin. The armored human took out the closest rank of the beasts, stepped backward, nearly lost his balance, took out the next rank, and retreated again, until he was perched cen-termost on the body of the undead landshark that was resting on an ever-increasing number of other lower planar creatures.
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  "What is it that gives creatures like that such power?" asked the short observer, almost in admiration.

  "The power of Good," snarled his tall companion. "Four minutes. Ah, she's finally here. It's over now."

  The short abishai followed his cohort's sharper eyes to the blossom of crimson on the horizon. "Keep counting," he said grimly.

  By the count of ten the blossom had congealed into a great flying creature, the form of a hell-maiden in full regalia. Her flesh was shining silver, polished with the blood of her enemies, and seemed to merge with her flame-mirrored armor. She held in one clawlike hand an ebony blade of a shade so dark it hurt the eyes to behold it. Her crimson hair swept backward away from he/ face as she dove upon the battling paladin, a banshee scream on her lips. She was the most beautiful and frightening creature of the Abyss.

  "Judith," said the Castellan, suppressing a shudder. Judith was among the Keepers of the Peace, the strong arms of Takhisis in the Abyssal Planes. She was also nominally the watching abishai's immediate superior. Both creatures shrunk back into the rocks, even though Judith's attention was fixed on the interloper.

  The paladin looked up, cued to his peril only by the dark hordes themselves pulling back with Judith's arrival. A timely duck kept his head on his shoulders as the black blade, trailing ebony flames, passed through the air where his neck had been only seconds before.

  Judith circled again, and the paladin began to glow more strongly, more intensely.

  The Hell-maiden swung her great black blade over her head with both hands as she dived. The paladin raised his sword of glowing crystal to catch the blow and turn it aside. The blades met…

  … and the paladin's sword shattered into a million fragments. Judith swooped low over the land in a banking dive and turned to make another pass. The paladin staggered, his own blood now mixing with the darker hues on his punctured armor. He looked up with dull, fearful eyes as Judith returned a third time, sweeping her sword in a broad stroke aimed at the top his helmet. The Castellan saw the paladin reach for his throat and…

  … the blade passed through his body just as the paladin became misty as a fog bank fading in the dawn. Judith stood where the paladin moments before had withstood the armies of the Abyss and howled in rage. The ground thundered at her shout. There was another blossom of crimson, then she, too, was gone.

  "Rather fled than dead, it seems," said the Castellan. 'Time?"

  "Two tics short I'm afraid," said the Abbot, holding up eight of ten fingers.

  "You counted slow," pouted the short one. "If I did, you failed to notice," said the tall one with a smile. "So it matters not. Come on, Judith's going to be haring after that paladin for a little while more. We might as well clear the scene."

  The two descended from their low hillock, toward the Castellan's crypts and away from the ruins of the battlefield. Already the scavengers of the Abyss were crawling from their burrows, unconcerned about the allegiance and alignment of their meals. The Abbot had no love of such feeding frenzies and lengthened his strides. The more portly abishai had to puff and scurry to keep up.

  "Why do they do it?" asked the Castellan, panting. "Why storm the Abyss?"

  His taller companion sighed and slowed only for a moment. "Because they see themselves as Good and us as Evil. We're opposites, so we gravitate toward each other." "Then what is Good?" continued the Castellan. "Our opposite," said the other, then stopped, as if turning his attention fully to the question. "But I think I see your point. You don't see us storming Paladine's castle on a regular basis. Shouldn't the question rather be 'What is it about Good that causes those possessing it to act in such a foolish fashion?' There is probably something in the very nature of goodness that inflicts such blind stupidity." "Stupidity and more," said the shorter creature. "There is a tangy taste to their souls. You can feel it when they die: an electrification of the air, an exhilaration of the soul, a nobility of the spirit…" His voice died off as he realized his companion was now staring at him.

  "A nobility of the spirit," said the Abbot of Misrule, a small smile flickering across his face. "Then isn't our question not 'What is good?' but 'What is nobility?' "

  "Perhaps it is," said the Castellan, and set off again, passing the first crypts of the area under his care.

  "Or perhaps not," the Abbot said. His shorter companion could hear the shrug in his voice. "There is goodness in nobility and nobility in goodness. You cannot separate the two."

  "I disagree," said the Castellan. "You should be able to have one without the other. I'm almost sure of that."

  "Hmmm," said the Abbot as they reached the heated brass doors of the shorter abishai's domain. "Do I hear another wager being made?"

  "It's just an idea, an experiment, if you will," said the Castellan, thinking (briefly) of how Judith would react to all this spurious betting by her subordinates. "But since you bring it up, we could make it… interesting with a bet of some sort."

  "Not just a cup of sainf s blood for an… experiment… of such magnitude," the Abbot cautioned.

  "Well, I have long lusted after your freedom in the living world, advising the great and near-great. Badly, it is true, but still, such freedom." The Castellan sighed despite himself.

  "And I have always envied your vaunted position as guardian of the most damned among the damned, the creme de la creme in a manner of speaking," the taller abishai replied, grinning. "But that is the fate of eternal damnation: You don't get what you want. What would the nature of this 'experiment' be?"

  The Castellan swung his crypt door open to reveal steps made of burning anthracite. Without a second thought, he started down them, while his companion gingerly picked his way down among the cooler spots. "We discover if one can be noble without being Good," said the portly abishai, rubbing his leathery palms together. "I have entrusted to me the worst of the worst, hated creatures condemned for five or six eternities. We take one, restore him to life, and send him to Krynn with the command 'live nobly.' And we see if he pulls it off."

  By this time the pair had reached the bottom level of the crypt, where the worst of the worst were kept. The shelves

  were made of brass and glowed from the heat of the burning floor. Stacked upon each shelf, almost filling the room, were jars made of iron, white gold, and heavily leaded glass. There was the low moaning of the tormented within the room, and the smoky glass would often clear enough to reveal a mortal face, screaming in pain.

  The Abbot's foot crunched on a broken shard. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. On it, in burning gold script, was the single word: RAISTLIN.

  "Have you tried this before?" asked the Abbot, turning the glass over.

  The Castellan shook his head. "There are always a few who slip through the net, for one reason or another. I have a bottle for Lord Soth, but it was never filled." He gave a heavy shrug, then motioned to the remainder. "But we have such a variety to choose from: murderers, maniacs, deluded priests, petty officials. Pick one, and we'll see what happens."

  The Abbot of Misrule raised a taloned hand to his lips, his eyes locked on one shelf of bottles. "Let me understand this clearly. I say that nobility cannot exist without goodness. You say that you can be one without being the other."

  "That is the supposition of the experiment."

  'The winner gets the loser's position, power, and portfolio for… say… a year of Krynn's time?" "That is a fair wager."

  The Abbot nodded. "I get to choose the sinner we try to redeem?"

  The Castellan held out both palms in agreement. "Done," he said.

  "Done," said the Abbot, and with a long arm snaked out and snagged an iron bottle from one of the burning shelves. It was a small jar, and in the mortal world it would seem a suitable vessel in which to store pickles, and small pickles at that. He tossed it to his partner. The toss was short, and the Castellan had to lean forward to catch it up. He turned the small jar in his short-clawed hands and brushed the dust from its surface.

  Toede
.

  The Castellan let out a low whistle and swore. "You rat-bastard. You're not going to make this easy."

  Chapter 1

  In which we officially meet Our Protagonist, who returns to the land of the Hiring and soon comes to regret it.

  Toede awoke with the taste of ashes in his mouth. Had he gotten drunk again and slept too close to the dying embers of the hearth? No, that was years ago, another lifetime and half a continent away, in a crude cavern with his fellow hobgoblins. Before the dragons came. Before opportunity knocked and showed him a dream of great power. Much had happened since then.

  Then there was another dream as well, more current, stemming from his recent slumber. Great and powerful figures-giants or godlings-striding the landscape, speaking to him. He was bound for greatness. No, not that. Nobility. He was bound for nobility. The rest of the dream tore away in small, forgotten strips as dreams tend to do, but that was enough. He liked dreams that promised good things in the future.

  But where was he? Toede looked around and saw he was perched at the base of a comfortable maple tree overhanging a quietly gurgling stream. On three sides-north, east, and west-the tree-clad hills rose sharply, cloaked in the brilliant green of new foliage, but the ground of the valley floor was flat and dotted with brush. The sky was as blue as a paladin's eye.

  The maple was in full bloom, and thin yellowish flowers streamed down around him on the soft breeze. Toede's nose twitched from the blooms, and he sneezed, explosively, expelling gouts of dust from each nostril.

  No doubt about it, thought Highmaster Toede, sniffing. I'm in the Abyss.

  Toede rose and padded down to the bank of the stream, kneeling over it and splashing water in his face, wiping the dust and pollen from his eyes. He drank a bit from his cupped hands. The water had that bitter, cold taste of freshness that always made Toede queasy, but any refuge is a relief, as his departed mother always used to say.