Toede threw himself into the preparations with halfhearted zeal, spending his evenings studying "his" text on the philosophy of government. Bunniswot had given him the magically lighted stone, but even with that advantage, he made slow progress. The margins were filled with Bunniswot-inspired gloss, explaining, for example, what Toede truly meant by the story of the shepherdess and the three priests of Hiddukel. His explanations were almost as dense and detailed as the text itself, though not nearly as amusing.
Throughout it all, the back of Toede's mind struggled with the nagging question: What happens when it goes wrong this time? Not if. When. Even with a dragon high-lord's army under his command, there was always a chance that something would go wrong. That the third enemy warrior on the left wasn't just some peasant, but the grandson of a wizard, and in the middle of the battle would start flinging fireballs. Or that the enemy standard was really a gold dragon. Or that one's own troops would have a sudden case of the chills, the gout, the mange, or dropsy.
And that was with trained troops, such as the professionals Groag would have at his beck and hire. With this lot-well, Toede planned on using gnolls as shock troops, the kender as skirmishers and streetfighters, and the necromancer's unnamed and unnumbered forces as the cavalry, if the others got repulsed, to cover their retreat.
Toede supposed it could be worse. They could be gnomes.
The highmaster explained the general outline of the attack to Rogate, Taywin, Kronin, Charka, and Renders. They nodded and agreed, since it met with their own racial tendencies. The gnolls would have smashed themselves against the walls if they thought it would work, and the kender liked the idea of fighting from a lot of cover. Rogate liked the idea of anything smacking of holy vengeance, and left with Kronin to inspect the troops (again). Renders just nodded and pretended as if he understood.
None of the five other leaders noted what Toede considered to be the hallmark of his plan-namely, that it put the
bulk of his army between him and Groag's forces in Flotsam. If Groag's mercenaries and guards folded as precipitously as Bunniswot seemed to think they would, then the city would be seized without his presence on the front line.
If, as Toede suspected, Groag gave a last-minute pep-talk in the form of emptying the treasury's coffers for the troops, and the attack failed, then he wanted to be as far away from the scene as possible.
The assault would take place along the south, at the ruined sections of the wall that Jugger had created and Groag had insufficiently repaired. The western half of the city would be ignored; the idea was to charge the Rock and taken out the existing government (meaning Groag and his flunkies) with minimum losses.
And minimum meant Toede intended to stay alive. He flirted with the idea of just sneaking out of camp now, heading for the dwarven cabin in the hills, and finding out later from some passing skald who won. After all, a live coward is better than a dead hero.
No, he decided, if he did that, then probably they would win, and it would be Kronin who would rule Flotsam and Toede who would be caught for poaching. That was the way his life (or lives) was working out of late.
As it turned out, Toede was not the only one concerned about the survival of a rebellion member. He was talking with Taywin over the remains of the evening meal when Charka dropped to their eye-level with a squatting thud, interrupting their discourse.
"Charka lead troops," said the gnoll chieftain, "but want Renders to be safe in rear."
"Actually, I'd rather be with you and your entourage," said the human scholar, but Charka would not be swayed.
"Renders no has magic," went the gnoll's argument. "Renders no has muscle. Renders going to tell enemy stories? Maybe hit them with brain? No, Renders stays behind at camp."
"Leave Renders with me," said Toede, "behind the main body, but in a position to come up fast if the attack breaks down." He'll be a big help then, he added privately.
Charka agreed to the plan, if grudgingly. Taywin rocked back on her perch. "You know, I'm amazed," she said, looking at the two figures sitting across the fire. "Humans and gnolls usually fight, yet the two of you seem to have formed a fast friendship."
Charka looked at the kender. "Is it not obvious?" "Ah," said Renders. "Ah. I think you are thinking in terms of human and gnoll. You should instead think in terms of male"-he placed an affectionate hand on the gnoll's shoulder-"and female."
Taywin stopped rocking, and her eyes grew wide, such that her eyebrows would have disappeared beneath her hairline (if she currently had one).
Toede grunted, rising to his feet. "And on that note," he said, abandoning the kender to press on through what promised to be a conversational mine field, "I have to get back to my own studies." He padded off to his command tent.
The tent was made of motley pieces of stained, formerly white canvas that had once graced the scholar's camp, and had been presented (with as much pomp and dignity as the kender could manage) to Toede by the parents and children of the warriors Toede was sending off to die in Flotsam. Toede hated it because it was a reminder of the faith they had (or at least seemed to have) in him, and because it was such an inexpert job. The evening wind curled and howled through the hastily sewn, jagged patchwork.
Toede stomped into his tent, pulled out the camp chair in the gathering dark, and opened the box containing the light-stone. He fitted it into its holder, bathing the interior of the tent in a soft, warm light. Toede opened the book of his wit and wisdom to where he had last marked it, a passage that Bunniswot noted as being a frank discussion of free-market ethics. Toede was glad for the explanation, for otherwise he would have assumed it was about a noble and street duchess arguing about various prices and services.
Toede leaned back in his chair, balancing on the rear legs, and propped his feet up on a makeshift table of boards and stones. There was a small movement near his bunk, and a small, kender-sized figure appeared.
"Greetings, Toede," said Miles.
Toede would have jumped in surprise at the familiar intonation of the voice, but unfortunately, his current position was not made for jumping, so instead he merely pitched over backward in his chair.
Toede grunted as he hit the soft earthen floor and looked up to see a distinctly waterlogged Miles. His face was partially ruined by days of immersion in water and the tender bashing of the cascades, but it was still recognizable. If nothing else, the ornate dagger sticking out of his chest was a dead (pardoning the pun) giveaway.
Miles grinned, long-drowned muscles pulled almost entirely away from the skull. "I think I surprised you."
"You have a nasty sense of humor, Necromancer," said Toede, pulling himself to his feet.
"Everything about me is nasty," said the mage who was manipulating Miles's body and voice. "But I rarely have a chance to… display it."
"Lucky me," murmured Toede. More loudly he said, "Are your troops in position?"
"The bulk of them are," said Miles's corpse.
"Oh, they're platoons of invisible stalkers," said Toede, "with a wing of aerial servants, and a division of unseen avengers?"
Miles made a clucking noise that Toede assumed was laughter. "The bulk of my army has always been here, Toede, even during your reign. Lumber, stone, and trash were not the only things washed up on shore when Istar sank those many centuries ago."