Lord Toede by Jeff Grubb

he would be seen as
     paranoid. Just a soak-off. A throwaway warrior.” Groag saw Toede's face curl into a tight
     ball, and was suddenly unwilling to ask his lord to share his thoughts. The innkeep
     returned with a pair of small vials and a short strip of cured leather. As the scar-faced
     innkeeper worked the bolt loose from Toede's arm, the highmaster sat down and bit hard on
     the leather. Flashes of pain, like sudden, silent lightning, flickered inside his tightly
     shut eyes. Toede half hoped for the blackness to return and claim him, but was spared that
     luxury. Then a glass vial was pressed against his lips, and a sickeningly sweet syrup
     oozed down his throat. The colors faded, and the blackness retreated. A second vial-load
     of curative potion dripped into his esophagus. The pungent aroma gagged Toede, making him
     think involuntarily of death by pancake syrup. He opened his eyes and touched his wounded
     arm. The cloth was still sticky with his blood, but the pain had subsided. Rubbing it, he
     could still feel the small crater where the bolt had entered his body. The innkeep rose.
     “You should go now,” he said solemnly. “We'll need some supplies,” said Toede. “You should
     go now,” repeated the innkeep. “You have served the minion well,” intoned Toede, knowing
     that this seemed to command attention. “But let us consider the deviousness of my enemy,
     the false minion of Hopsloth, the anti-minion. His own servants will be here soon, brought
     by your fleeing patrons. Upon discovering you aided us, they will torture and perhaps kill
     you, and most definitely burn your inn to the ground. You have shown kindness to us, and I
     cannot allow you to come to harm. Therefore, I tell you to quickly gather a few items for
     us. Then we will lock you in your own cellar, if you wish, and leave, so that the agents
     of the false minion will find you a victim as well.” Toede did not say that, were he in
     charge of Flotsam once again, he would burn the entire inn to the ground just as a safety
     precaution, regardless of the innkeep's guilt or innocence. No sense in making the poor
     human worry. As it was, the human readily nodded, and Toede rattled off a list of supplies
     he would need. The human said he had them available and would go fetch them.
    This readiness surprised Toede, who thought that some of his requests were for items that
     might take some time to collect, or might cause the innkeep to leave the building,
     allowing Toede and Groag to rifle his remaining stocks. It occurred to Toede that the
     innkeep might have his own reasons for sticking to the premises and keeping his building
     from burning to the ground. He filed that away for future reference.
    Groag had recovered his breath and was kneeling over the body of their human assailant,
     who was still breathing shallowly, but steadily now. “He'll be coming around soon. You
     want me to kill him?” “No,” said Toede. “I have a better idea.” He retrieved the heavy
     dagger of the dead barbarian and thumbed the point. Razor sharp, as he had hoped.
    Toede then kneeled over the prostrate form of the human and opened his shirt the rest of
     the way, baring both chest and belly. He used the knife to inscribe two lines in the flesh
     of the man's chest, not cutting deep enough to severe muscle or puncture organs, but
     sufficient enough to break and open the skin. The first line ran from nipple to nipple,
     while the second ran from the
    center of where this line crossed the sternum to the belly button (an “outtie,” he noted).
     He stepped back to admire his handiwork and heard the heavy tread of the supply-laden
     innkeeper. The innkeep whistled low at the hobgoblin's artistry. The assailant had a
     crimson T carved into his chest. “He said he was a messenger, eh?” Toede said to Groag.
     “Let this be the message he carries back to his master.” To the innkeep he said, “You can