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!"