They arrived at the room in which the two trogs were waiting impatiently, a dark room lit only by the sunlight coming in through two small windows high up near the ceiling, and the two short but stocky humanoids jumped to their feet the moment they saw them. They were of typical trog appearance. About five feet tall, almost as wide across the shoulders and shrouded head to foot in thick layers of clothing except for a narrow gap across the face through which dark, suspicious eyes regarded them warily. Clusters of trophy cords hung from their heads like dreadlocks, braided and tied with scarlet ribbons. They had huge hands, twice the size of the hands of a human, and every finger ended in a sharp, cylindrical bullet of a fingernail protruding from the tips of their gauntlets. Thomas noted that the ends of those nails were chipped and scratched and remembered that they were said to be strong enough to claw through some of the softer kinds of rock.
Their outermost layer of clothing was traditional trog battle gear, with breastplates of real steel on which was painted their clan emblem; a badger climbing over an anvil. They also wore strong leather boots with slennhide shin guards and steel helmets with a single, forward pointing horn. They held battle hammeraxes; double headed weapons with a hammer on one side and an axe on the other, and strapped across their backs were heavy picks, designed for hacking rapidly and efficiently through rock too hard and solid for their fingernails.
They wore leather belts across their thick waists from which hung several pouches and an assortment of small stoneworking tools. Hammers, chisels and the like. One of the trogs, taller than the other by a couple of inches, also had some kind of tablet hanging from his belt, about six inches square and a quarter of an inch thick, and hanging next to it was a pencil, presumably for writing on it. Thomas’s forehead creased in puzzlement as he looked at them. That was a strange item of equipment for a trog to carry, he thought, and he made up his mind to ask him about it some time.
At the moment, though, the trogs seemed to be in no mood for idle conversation. They were clearly furious about something, and the shorter of the two drew himself to his full height and pulled the bandages from his face before thrusting his pale, hairless chin out at them.
“So you’re the crazy, stupid lankies who thought of asking a slaver to be our guide!” he shouted angrily. “Let me have a good, long look at you, I’ve always wondered what a suicidal half wit looks like.”
“What?” exclaimed Thomas in confused bafflement. He glanced back at his friends, hoping for support, and Shaun came forward in response. “There’s no need for that kind of language,” he said softly. “Do you think...”
“No call for that kind o’ language?” said the second, taller trog, equally angry. “I say there’s every call for that kind o’ language, aye, and more of it! I’d heard that humans were as brainless as a retarded toad, but now I think that description flatters you. Of all the beasties in the world who know the world below like the backs o’ their hands, you had to ask a slaver. Just what in the names of all the demons in Hell were you thinking of?”
“There wasn’t anyone else!” shouted back Thomas in sudden anger. “They searched all over the island for someone else, anyone else, who knew the way, but there wasn’t anyone. It was either ask the slavers or forget the whole thing. Now the slaver is indispensable for this mission, but you’re not, so if you don’t like it you can just go home and we’ll do without you.”
The two trogs glanced at each other as if taken aback by the wizard’s outburst. “Aye, and we would go straight home, if we hadn't been asked to accompany you by Lanaris himself. Make no mistake, human, it's only because of him that we agreed to this crazy venture. If anyone else had dared to suggest such a thing, you can be sure that we’d have told him in no uncertain terms where to go and what to do.”
“All right, you’ve registered your reservations,” replied Thomas acidly. “And now, if you’ve got anything constructive to say, we’ll be glad to hear it. Otherwise, I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”
“Come now, gentlemen, let's try to remain calm,” said Gelrad, coming forward to stand between the questers and the trogs. “Let’s try to be civilized about this. We’re all on the same side, so why don’t you shake hands and try to get on together?”
“Yes, come on Tom,” added Diana. “I’m sure they didn’t mean anything personal. If we set out on this mission divided among ourselves, we’re beaten before we even begin.”
“Yes, I know,” agreed the wizard with a sigh, stepping past Gelrad to face the trogs again. “I’m sorry for what I said. You’re right, having a slaver for a guide is extremely dangerous, but there’s simply no other way. You’re right to have very grave reservations about the idea.” He smiled. “You should have heard the arguments we had among ourselves about it.” He held out his hand.
“Aye, well,” replied the shorter trog, looking a little uncomfortable as if ashamed at his outburst. “We did agree to it, so we must be as crazy as you.” He shook hands with the wizard, carefully so as not to crush his tiny, fragile human hand, and everyone relaxed.
“Good, good,” said the paladin, a big beaming smile on his face. “And now that we’re all friends again, I’ll go get the cthillian ambassador. In the meantime, you can be getting to know each other. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.” So saying, he slipped back out of the door and disappeared down the corridor.
The six questers introduced themselves, and the trogs responded in kind. The shorter of the two trogs was called Douglas Greylavel, and the other was called Angus Balderham. They were cousins who’d been travelling together for many years and who spent most of their time in the company of humans and other surface dwelling races, untypical of trogs in general, most of whom never set foot outside their great tunnel cities. These two, however, had become bored with the company of their own race and had decided to seek out the company of other peoples in other lands, eager to see as much of the world as possible, and perhaps accumulate a little fame and fortune at the same time. They hadn’t had much luck in this latter department yet, but then they were both still quite young, neither of them being much over sixty years old.
They’d met Lanaris thirty years before, when the paladin had still been a young man and had only just been awarded his paladin status by the God of War. They had travelled together for a few years, along with a few other characters of similar frame of mind, and the trogs had been so impressed by his dedication to the weak and helpless, his concern for the welfare of every person they met, no matter how lowly, wretched or humble, that when their little group disbanded and they all went their separate ways they had promised him that they would always be available any time he needed them, that they would do anything he asked of them.
Lanaris had thanked them greatly for this, praising their loyalty and telling them how much he valued their friendship, and had taken advantage of their offer many times during the intervening years, every time there was a special mission to be undertaken that required their special talents. The trogs had accepted every mission gladly, successfully accomplishing most of them, and had gladly accepted this one as well at first, until they’d learned that the guide they’d been promised was unavailable and was to be replaced by a slaver. They’d had serious doubts for the first time then, and had even seriously considered turning down the mission, but in the end their devotion and loyalty to the paladin had won out over their fears.
The questers then told the trogs something of themselves, and after a few minutes the eight of them were chatting quite happily with each other, as basically good people will do eventually, no matter what the differences between them. The trogs warmed towards the questers as they found that they had their own impressive list of achievements, that they weren't the brainless fools they’d first assumed them to be, and as their anger faded to reveal the gentler side of their natures the questers found themselves liking the trogs in return, so that when Gelrad returned they were laughing and joking like old friends, all trace of their earlier antagonism forgotten.
“I hate to break up the party,” he said with a big grin, “but the cthillian ambassador is here.” His grin faded and he grew serious. “I urge you all to remember that a slaver’s sense of humour is radically different from ours, and that no-one really knows what will amuse them and what will anger them. Please be very careful what you say, and above all be respectful.”
They all promised, and so Gelrad went back out to invite the cthillian in. The atmosphere of friendliness and companionship that had so briefly filled the room evaporated, leaving behind a tense feeling of dread and awful expectancy. Thomas realised that his hands were shaking, and he clasped them together in front of him in an attempt to stop them. They still trembled, though, despite the fact that his knuckles were white with the effort. Stop it! he told himself. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. All the stories told about them are probably wild exaggerations, they’re probably no worse than shologs and goblins. It’s ridiculous that just one of them should have this kind of effect on me, with all my friends standing right here around me. What can just one of them do?
Then Gelrad returned, and with him was the slaver. There was a gasp of horror from someone, and Thomas found himself taking two steps backwards, his hand reaching instinctively for his dagger.
The slaver was several inches taller than the paladin, and its entire body was hidden from view by a long, dark robe that reached down to the ground, dragging along behind it as it flowed into the room as silently as death. Its arms hung by its sides, its hands hidden by long, loose sleeves, and a large baggy hood covered its head, coming down low over its face and veiling its features in darkness. The outer loop of its coiled proboscis could be seen, though. Dangling below where the chin would have been on a human and pulsating slightly with every beat of the creature’s heart. There was something about the outline of its body under the robes sent an electric tingle down Thomas’s spine, but the worst thing was the way it seemed to just glide into the room with scarcely a ripple of the hem of its robes, as though it were being pushed along gently on wheels or was floating just an inch or so off the floor.
Gelrad made sure to remain a few feet away from the cthillian as it moved into the room, knowing that the aura of holiness that surrounded him would be extremely uncomfortable to the subterranean monster and not wanting to risk provoking a defensive response. The cthillian paid him no attention, though, and although they couldn’t see its eyes, the six questers and the trogs somehow knew that they were being subjected to a very careful and critical examination. Thomas saw a glint of light reflecting off something in the darkness under its hood as it turned in his direction, and he forced himself to remain calm and in control of himself until its gaze passed on to Matthew.
“This is Ctharliwun, one of the cthillian ambassadors,” said Gelrad, and he went on to introduce everyone to the slaver. “I'm afraid there are matters that demand my attention," he said when he'd finished, "so I’ll leave you all to get acquainted. Someone’ll be along shortly to take you to the dining room for dinner, and you’ll be leaving the island a couple of hours after that, as soon as it’s dark. I’ll try to be there to see you off, but for now I’m afraid I’ve just got to go. Farewell.” He stepped through the door, looked back once to make sure they’d be all right without him, and then hurried off.
When the paladin had gone, an uncomfortable silence settled over the room, everyone too nervous to speak and not knowing what to say in any case. Angus’s hammeraxe twitched nervously in his hands, his every instinct telling him to bring it down hard on the slaver’s head before it could bring its lethal telepathic mind attacks to bear on him, and Jerry hid behind Shaun’s legs, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. The others just stood like shop dummies, afraid to even move in case they inadvertently did something to cause offence, and not wanting to attract its attention to themselves in any case. After several minutes had passed like this, though, Thomas decided that it had gone on long enough. Someone’s got to break the ice, he thought, and it might as well be me.
He took a couple of steps forward, therefore, and cleared his throat. “Um, er, thanks for agreeing to lead us down to the Underworld," he said. "I don’t know what we’d have done otherwise so, er, well, thank you, that’s all.”
The creature looked at him for a few moments, and then raised its hands to lower the hood from its head. As it did so, its sleeves fell back down its arms, revealing its hands, and they saw that they were a livid purple colour and damp, like the hands of a frog or a toad, with three long, thin fingers and a thumb, each with a long, sharp claw. The fingers grasped the edges of the hood and pulled it down around its neck, and as its face was revealed Jerry gave a pathetic cry of terror and staggered backwards, bumping into a chair and tripping over it.
Diana ran over to help him. The tiny nome was unhurt, physically at least, but he kept whispering the same few words to himself over and over again. “The slaver! The minion of nightmare! The terror of the Underworld!”