Fub holds the door as Rexa, and I leave the Head Hob’s house. He then points out the direction we need to take and darts back behind me, following. Before the next choice of direction, his arm extends from behind me just enough to notice to confirm the next turn. The village is small, and I have a sense of where we are going and yet this is still silly. I pull his arm forward until his entire body is in front of me ignoring his howls of protest.
I growl, “Stay in front and lead us there, why don’t you?”
He quietens, head down. Fingers fidgeting, he says “Head Hob always needs to lead. Without me, he loses his way sometimes but only last few years …”
“Go ahead, I don’t care who leads.”
Several goblins notice us approach the cliff face; they point out Fub who wilts under the scrutiny.
“Well done, Fub, excellent directing,” I announce.
Like chickens, the other goblins raise their heads to look at me, look at Fub and then get back to their tasks. The site is perfect as far as I can tell, there is a kiln furnace in the cliff face, some stone naturally in position then more stone added to complete the structure. The river extracts clay from the plateau above and tumbles over the cliff face forming a waterfall that ends in a wide deep pool. The loss of flow allows the sediment to accumulate on the banks while the pool overflows to continue the river. The pottery wheel is water driven by the waterfall.
“Lord Farmer Hob this way,” calls Fub.
I break from my inspection and inside a nearby house, probably more a warehouse Fub shows off a stack of pottery, jars of different sizes, small things like cups and plates, most gathering dust.
“Why does it stay here gathering dust?”
“Head Hob values the pottery high, copper-smithing low, food in between. We make pottery faster than Smith Hob and you of course Farmer Hob can afford to buy. So, Head Hob saves it all here until he needs to sell.”
I spy what I want. “Six of the tall jars with lids, price?”
“Will you ask Head Hob for Fub again?”
While I would like to lead him on with false promises, I doubt asking again will change Head Hob’s mind, as far as he is concerned the goblin is required to guide him through his old age.
“I promise to ask, but Head Hob will only get angry and say no again. In a few years, I will be Head Hob most likely.” I shrug my shoulders.
“Not certain you will be, the Head Hob summons a candidate, can be any of the Hobs.”
Does that bother me? Probably not if the Head Hob doesn’t interfere. “I am not looking to be Head Hob and the fact I may not be, suits for now.”
His body loses all poise squeezing down, his knuckles near enough dragging along the ground.
“I will still ask him though, I promise.”
His nod is a floppy one. Probably not a good time to ask for a price but I can’t wait around until he gets happy again, so here I go. “Price Fub?”
“Jar of honey, fifteen jars of grain.” He waves a floppy hand and drags his feet leaving the warehouse. Rexa and I follow, I am trying not to laugh, cruel perhaps but nothing can be done.
“How long have you served the Head Hob?’
A sniff and his dropping eyes look back at me, “Fub ten seasons old when escape, now thirty-eight seasons.”
I shake his hand in front of as many goblins working on the pottery as I can and thank him for his help in as loud a voice as possible without overselling the charade. Not certain my gesture helped there and then, but you never know. We don’t follow Fub, instead, I follow the banks of the river turning towards the trail when I reach the burnt-out spot of my pyre.
“Farmer Hob you live then, against all the odds and rumours.”
I recognise the voice, Hunter Hob. Shouldn’t he be killing goblins in useless hunts this time of day? I turn around to face him, my hope of a quick getaway in doubt. He sits, back against the wall of a House under shade whittling a stick with a copper knife.
“I survived as you can see, on my way back to the farm this very moment in fact.”
He climbs to his feet, throwing the stick away and sheathing the knife. “Have you started seeding yet?” He looks sideways at me squinting one eye, the sun I wonder.
“I know my duty,” I reply with a slight growl in my voice.
“So that is a yes then?”
I try to resist the urge to advance upon him and place my fingers around his throat, squeezing and shaking … Rexa squeezes my arm. I cough to settle myself and buy time.
“Certainly.” I flash a fake smile, wide, showing teeth.
“Will they be tougher next time? This season they died too easy, but you know, fewer mouths to feed and I have some time to kill.” He starts laughing and I look on scrunching my face up. “Did you see what I did there, they die, I have time to kill … funny.”
This explains why furs aren’t abundant, let alone meat and of course, Fub didn’t mention any price comparison for Hunter Hob, confirmation if ever there was, there wouldn't be a need to.
I wave and turn away, heading for the trail.
“Do you need any help on the farm?”
I don’t look back, shaking my head and hurrying with fresh urgency. To her credit, Rexa keeps pace with me. I swear if he follows me, he will have an accident, alternatively, I could ask him to scout out some new forest and perhaps nature will claim him. I shake my head at the thought. Nope. When the tide turned in his hunt, he left first before anyone else, leaving the goblins to slow down the sow with their lives. I wonder if he ever retrieved their spears. If he didn’t then what? How does he acquire replacement weapons?
We are descending the other side of the rise now, out of sight of the village. I fist pump and declare a successful escape, although I push on, dragging Rexa until she moans in pain and allowing her to finally rest. I close my eyes for a moment and drift off, blinking awake with a start as I hear moaning again. I check Rexa and she sleeps still. Rexa lays on her side in some tall grass so I take chance and leave her to locate the moaning.
There is a sparse forest, more light brush and bush, the occasional sapling, in short plenty of cover, which I use every step of the way, taking care with each footfall. The more cautious time-consuming approach of course, although with my bow ready and an arrow nocked, I consider I should have the drop on whatever is calling. I round a dense shrub. Tied to a stake in the ground is a small furry animal, bleating but otherwise uninjured. The bleating sound baring a remarkable similarity to a goblin moaning.
I sprint back to Rexa, my heart sinking as I know in my bones I have been tricked, lured away from the prize. She is gone of course, and I fruitlessly look about, why, I don’t know. Trampled grass is my only lead and without hesitation, I follow a new path leading into our small patch of flattened grass. The path heads directly away from the lure, I am certain this can’t be their preferred direction as we are heading West and back to the Head Hob’s village; more or less. Just as I begin to doubt, the path turns smartly South and into a grove of mature trees. They probably thought with dusk coming anyone following would continue running straight … otherwise, it makes no sense. Fortunately, I still have daylight left thanks to my long stepping sprint.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
I crouch low, sucking in deep breaths and I know although heavier than a goblin my speed and endurance is greater than this planet’s Hobgoblins thanks to the cocktail of drugs and nanorobots planted into my flesh bag corpse. They must be close by. I repeat the same level of caution when duped previously, hopeful of a better result.
“… this time.”
I catch two words and they are enough; I freeze and listen.
“This valley seems the best of them all for wild goblins, we should stay longer.” The voice deep, almost a conversational growl.
“We can’t, we have too many captives now to keep secure, although four Hobs in this one valley alone is exceptional, fortunately, the one we should fear most, the Hunter Hob, is useless.”
Some quiet chortling follows.
“Do we feed them again or need them only half in a daze, I don’t want to carry any do you?” says growler.
“Yep, let them ride out what they have, by the time we pack up they should be capable of walking and yet still delirious out of their heads, we should be near the gap before they start to regain some sense and struggle.”
“Yeah, through the gap and gone!” cheers growler.
Did I hear hands clapping? Do I rescue now or follow, the gap whatever it is could be important in so many ways, no need to exit the bottom of the valley to the herd plain below, immediate access to another valley. I will need to kill them; they have another home to go to and they must fail to arrive. I feel the need to pick a fight.
Eavesdropping for familiar sounds, I catch the occasional metal on metal, flapping of cloth or leather and rolling. Straps being tied. All typical of packing up a camp. Almost right on queue some murmurings and mumbling of questions, a nonsensical jumble of words, not any sentences.
“There, there, now, put this on, feel the tug and follow, home isn’t far away.”
The two repeat this several times, ten or twelve? They can’t have that many, can they?
“You are doing well to carry your load …” There is a snicker and a humph as if trying to stifle a laugh.
Underway the chat stops, and I need to listen for the shuffling of boots, I don’t dare try to glimpse my quarry, keeping my distance. As dusk approaches there is more questioning from the captives, which is harshly beaten down.
“Isn’t that a glorious sight?”
There isn’t a reply, probably a nod or a wave in confirmation. If they can see it from here, I should be able to also.
I wait for another uprising and verbal protest, creeping forward during the ruckus. I catch a brief flash, taller than a goblin, probably a Hob then and an arm wearing hard leather armour.
“Husband!”
“Shut her up, she’ll stir up the others,” hisses growler.
Her cry tugs at the human in me, my Hob nature sears the weakness, burning out all thought of rushing in, hero-like. Instead, I continue my stealth forward.
As I round a bush, I come face to face with a Hob. His mouth open, I grab the loose arrow from the bowstring, fumbling and then drive the shaft up through the soft flesh of his jaw and tongue as it sets for a yell. His eyes fly wide open, and my knife is next to hand as he raises his hands in defence while trying to turn and bolt at the same time. I plunge my knife into the back of his neck.
“Husb … d!”
His momentum or will continues his escape, my flint knife blade exiting the wound. Hard leather covers his back another knife thrust probably useless so instead I launch a boot at his legs trying to kick one into the other.
His yelp fades away as he falls to the ground in a tangle of legs, smacking his face on the forest floor my flint arrowhead protruding from the back of his head. I sheath my dagger, pick up and sling my bow over a shoulder and then bend down again to relieve him of the two axes in his belt, test griping one in each hand.
“Hus … ugh.”
The string line of prisoners are on a game trail and yet more than a game trail due to the uncommon width. I creep down the line, thankfully my target a goblin, her back to me yet armour hardened leather like the Hob. Incredibly I stumble, recovering quickly I note her head jerk about. My wife now quiet, slumping to the limits of her rope, the prisoner next in line holding her head off the ground, slowly choking her.
I backhand the axe into the prisoner’s leg as I pass by rushing towards a goblin drawing twin knives as she turns to face me. I don’t swing a weapon, accelerating instead to increase the force behind my charge. Her hands now full of knives rise, intending to slice at my flesh. Before she can swing them into position, I crash into her, my momentum due to my weight and speed slams her back, off her feet. Hands and arms flailing while falling.
I stare into closing eyes as my target comprehends the probable ruination the sudden stop will inflict upon her. The crushing of her smaller body under my charging bulk yielding a crack, then a cut-off scream of pain … air rushes from her lungs past my left side ear. As she gasps, I roll off and gain my feet. She strives to recover by repeating my effort, her injuries though reduce her to writhing in pain, unable to stand. I grab her leather boots and flip her stomach side down, mouth wide although lacking air to sound out another scream, the glimpse I have of her contorted face proof enough of her pain.
Dragging my prisoner to the string line of captives I drop upon her buttocks while using a knife to cut my wife free. The next in line statue still, black blood drenching her hands trying to stem the flow from a thigh wound gash the voluminous puddle of blood in such a short time suggesting a cut artery. A rasping breath draws my attention. In this carefree moment of celebration, I lift my goblin wife to sit upon my lap and kiss her.
Setting my wife upon her feet I remove her bindings. Utilising those ropes, I truss the arms and legs of the goblin kidnapper behind her back leaving the body to flop about upon the ground.
In the passing moments, she finds her breath to screech, “Did you slay my Hob you creep?”
I ignore her and cast my eyes over the string of captives, ropes around their necks, arms tied behind backs and rope hobbles around their ankles. They sink to their haunches one after the other, the rope around their necks forcing them all to a common height. Sobbing. Snivelling. One gritting her teeth. Their reactions a curious mix. There is no assumption I am their rescuer, for example, the wariness in their eyes the proof.
How much time do I have? Do the kidnappers meet others on this side of the gap? At the gap? Are they expected and if late will others come looking? Only one will know the answer.
I approach my special captive to remove her armour, hard leather greaves and vambraces first, she swears and curses of course. Next, I roll her onto her belly and am surprised by her silence. Untying the leather thongs securing the front and back of her hard leather breastplate the silent treatment continues. I stretch her bound arms away from her back, which allows me to slide the back of her breastplate free. Quiet growls leak from between her clenching teeth as I do. She refuses otherwise to acknowledge the pain I must've surely inflicted by my actions, aggravating her broken rib. I roll her on her back, the front of the breastplate remains behind. A soft leather long sleeve jacket and long leg pants remain on her body. I remove her knee height leather boots, throwing them to my wife receiving a bright smile as a reward. Her eyes focus upon the armour now lying about and I nod.
“It is my armour creep … I earnt it you have no right to gift it …”
“Spoils of battle,” I reply, as I contemplate my next move.
“How did you defeat the Ranger Hob?”
Is that a step up from Hunter Hob or a new line of responsibility altogether?
“I don’t trust you and while I should slit your throat, I won’t. Instead, you will hang upside down under a tree where your friends can find you the next time they come by. Fair enough?”
She wiggles upon the ground in protest, and I assume pain. “I will free myself and seek revenge creep …”
I take a knee and press the point of her well-crafted knife into the soft part of her throat. The body instantly ceases to move. “Then better to slay you now no point in letting a sworn enemy take me unawares like I did your Ranger Hob.”
Black blood oozes out around the tip of the knife.
“No … stop. I misspoke … I …”
I suspect at this point she is searching for something of value to trade for her life. I don’t suggest anything, because I would reveal what is valuable to me, therefore I need her to volunteer information first. I withdraw the point and place the blade against her throat. “Death I believe appropriate for a cutthroat such as yourself.” I begin to draw the blade across her flesh.
“I don’t want to die … The fourth in line is one of us.”
A reply full of venom retorts, “You spineless bitch, we all swore an oath, death before betrayal!”
That explains my stumble, I guess. At the time, more of a foot and less of a rock or proud tree root and I couldn’t understand why one of the captives would deliberately trip me.
“He has a knife at my throat …” she whimpers.
“What part of death before betrayal don’t you understand?” hisses her accomplice.
My tough captive sobs while facing death revealing her need to live. The game of kidnapping no longer fun alone, her Ranger Hob protector slain, and now she is at the mercy of another, acting the bully role she usually plays. I wonder about death also, yet mine isn't usually permanent ...
I drag my captive along the trail until she is close to number four, depositing her on her belly, my body separating one from the other.
“We will play a game. The first to answer avoids being cut … let’s begin, the first in line where did you kidnap her from?”
“Wild goblin, this valley,” shouts number four.
My captive curses as I slice her forearm.
“Why?”
“Young fit, no name yet,” shouts my captive.
“No, don’t,” Number four’s head shakes. “I know where they were taken, she knows why because she has the list.”
I turn the head of my captive towards me needing to drag her face through the trail dirt and leaves.
“Explain?”
She shakes her head. I flash her knife before her face, the point targeting an eye.
“I only want one eye, if you keep moving your head, I could end up with much more …”
She closes them both. “They will name me ‘The One-eye’, I would rather die than be named so.”
“Your choice.” I shift the knife to her throat and press.
“The Chief Hob wants breeding stock, young childbearing goblins with no name and little or no family.”
I allow the knife to trail lightly over her throat. “Who else?”
“Any with civilised skills, male or female, we thought your goblin such a find since she kept your company, alone. Why would a Hob value a single female goblin otherwise?”
“Who else?” The knife is pressing into the back of her neck.
“Any showing pregnancy …”
“Who else?”
She sobs. Blood pools in the nape of her neck, which overflows and oozes down each side to reunite underneath to drip from her throat.
“Who else?”
“Any young or newborn Hobs … we have never seen any and yet if we do all other captives are to be slain to ensure we devote our entire attention to this one task.”