"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 flooded-u 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 nobility-the 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 argument.

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 reexcavated-so that it was only about three feet deep and ten feet wide-and 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.