The number of goblins dashing about the Farm increases as I, my wives and the captives draw ever closer. I suspect a welcome home celebration and glance towards the sisters who beam a return smile – confirmation for sure.
At the farm fence line, a committee of three goblins meets us.
“Welcome home Lord Hob, preparations have been made,” announces Zeb Stone Grim.
Behind him stand Redagar and Jotor, their faces complete opposites, the first bright and open … welcoming, the second functionary, a discrete peering behind me seeking confirmation. I assume not out of familial concern he seeks to determine if Rexa is alive.
A slight wind change and my nostrils fill with the sizzling scent of a roasting boar and I lick the drool from my lips.
Zeb chuckles. “The Ten Spears hunted down a boar especially, none daring to touch the Sows or their young …”
I grunt and nod, marching towards the source of the delicious aroma.
“Lord Hob release the lead …” calls Milga, laughter following her words.
Mid-stride I absently release the lead rope, eager for the destination. My Hob nature impatient of any delay.
The rotating boar over the cooking spit fills my vision as goblins on either side back away until one goblin female remains. Bracing her feet, arms straining, the boar shifts and then settles back.
My left-hand grasps a golden-brown rump, while the right takes a firm grip on the leg hock and I tear the leg away from the body with a grunt of exertion, my arm and shoulder muscles collaborating.
Through the last of the flesh in quick time, my sharp teeth hit the leg bone with a crunch, the jolt returning me to the present. The crackling of the fire under the cooking spit the solitary noise. Goblins, mouths agape surround me. A Hob roar settles within, mocking my return and urging a resumption to gluttony. The boar has three legs left, the dripping fat and crisping flesh tugs at my senses. Then my stomach rumbles, the build-up needs release. With a belch I find relief.
The goblins jump and cavort, dancing in a circle around me and the boar roasting on the cooking spit. Their cheering infectious as a fat smile rests upon my lips while I pat my stomach. One goblin though doesn’t join in, she strains and succeeds in turning the cooking spit and at my approach squeals as I wrap an arm around her waist lifting her until we are face to face.
“Your name?”
“Zoxa … Lord Hob,” she whispers.
“Thank you Zoxa.” I lower her and once steady, hand her the remains of my boar leg with more than enough flesh remaining to satisfy one goblin.
My eyes search for Zeb, he either sensing I need to speak to him or more likely waiting for me to finish my feasting to seek me out first.
I rip away the other leg and hoist the bounty upon my shoulder. “The rest to be shared,” I announce to Zeb who nods in response. Goblins with drooling faces flow around me as I stomp towards my cabin.
The human in me trying to comprehend, while the Hobgoblin in me cherishing the act of raw savagery, not only the taking and devouring of the boar flesh, the total disregard for the lesser beings around me – me strong, me first, me claim greater portion. Is this really the thought processes of Hobgoblins? Or just me? Is my Hobgoblin instinct trying to eliminate my human civility or content to occasionally dominate? The corpse I inhabit has racial memories at the very least, recalling the means of its death suggests partial life memories and now this insanity – hungering for boar flesh, displaying dominance – how am I to reconcile my two parts? Am I going ‘native’? A shiver rolls over me.
Their pawing hands wake me. I clear my frown.
“Better Lord? See wives, we cheer our husband with our welcome,” shouts Koria.
Swinging the boar leg down, I plunk the still hot succulent feast upon a table set out before my cabin.
“You were prepared then?”
Rexa snuggles her head into my chest. “Yes Lord, we knew you would feed your wives.”
“What of your partner and these miserable wretches?”
Milga. How could I forget her and my guests? I untangle myself from Rexa and place a hand upon Koria’s shoulder. “Share with all.” My head tills in the direction of Milga and the captives.
“As you wish husband,” she replies, then pops a sliver of grease-covered boar flesh into her mouth.
I take the prisoner coffle lead from Milga and bending over, knot the rope low around a cabin post forcing those in line to scramble to the ground.
One though recovers, hissing, “You promised us freedom …” Number three can speak.
I stand, gazing at each of them. “All in good time.”
They shift and squirm.
As Koria approaches the captives I reach over and drag her face to meet mine. I devour her lips in a sumptuous kiss tapping the back of her hand gaining her attention for my true purpose. Breaking our lip lock, my hand opens and with a sharp tooth smile she drops the portions of boar meat into my grasp.
I squat before the last prisoner and chew on one serving, my eyes wide in delight, drool escaping my mouth on purpose. Number five licks her lips in response.
“Tell me about yourself and your tribe … how you were taken.”
She swallows, eyes staring off, avoiding mine. My hand poises, ready to drop another taste of boar into my mouth, I bring her attention back to me.
Number one speaks first. “Lazsia, yet to earn her name, my tribe claims the valley below the field of yellow flowers to the edges of the plain. I was bathing when they came and thought of modesty before freedom as those with me chose to flee naked.”
I don’t play a game with the food. Without hesitation, I push the boar flesh into her open mouth and when certain, my fingers thread the rest to ensure she captures every morsel. She is careful not to bite the hand which feeds her, warm tongue slipping over and about my fingers. They all start calling out, reminding me of newborn hatchlings, mouths open wide, chirping to gain the attention of their mother to be fed first. Just like the low branch bird nest double zero five and I found while hiking during our married leave-lives together, the memory quickly rising … I toss each of the goblins in the coffle boar flesh and turn away, hurrying into the dark shaking my head.
Ignoring the calls of my wives I reach the Farm’s fence line before I am aware of the journey, my heart throbbing, my stomach hollow even though I know boar flesh sits within to almost overflowing. Leaning on a fence paling, I sob. How can such a small thing throw me back to a fleeting moment amongst so many lives, leave or otherwise? How? My eyes reach for the night sky searching for an explanation and the stars twinkle back in silence. I wipe my nose and eyes with my shirt sleeve. Is this my Human side rebelling, rejecting the Hobgoblin side by reaching back into my memories and reminding me of who I really am?
A heavy sigh, “Help …?”
I peer over the rail. Lying on her back, number six’s moist pleading eyes stare back. One hand holds a piece of cloth around the base of the knife sticking out of her lower torso, while the other grabs at the ground.
Do I offer sustenance to this little hatchling as well? Her promise to die in my service all but fulfilled and yet even now not beyond hope. Being a killer, she would know the locations of vital organs and arteries and I am certain the knife sticking out of her now missed every single one. Does she deserve credit for the placement, for dragging herself to the farm in the slim hope I would accept her attempt as proof? The Hob inside tries to force me to sneer and twist the knife, the human in me wishes to save the hatchling, like double zero five and I did several lives ago for a different bird.
Jumping the fence, I notice Zoria hold her breath. She is still uncertain … is this death or rescue? I scoop her body up into my arms, her face scrunches for a moment, a blink and I would have missed it. She refuses to acknowledge any pain, believing her audition isn’t yet over.
The glow of the campfire reflects the green completions of my wives’ faces, bright and happy devouring the boar meat. In a row closer to the ground the prisoners look on licking their lips without hope, I didn’t leave any orders for them to be fed beyond the portions I granted them. Reaching the edge of the dancing firelight my wives notice me and my burden. Before I can speak another does.
“She is condemned to death, partner. Why do you offer her false hope?”
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The Hob in me instantly agrees. I smile flashing my teeth and the weak hatchling in my arms attempts to struggle.
“This is a game,” says Milga. “You are going to use her death to motivate the others … I apologise for my doubt.”
Fully within the light of the campfire, my wives stare at me while the captives look on in morbid curiosity.
“Luda, fetch a stick or a wad of leather. Duzsia, fetch a narrow-bladed knife and Koria stoke the campfire, we need strong leaping flames.”
My hatchling struggles while Milga tries to smile. She hopes this is some sort of torture and yet I spy a glimmer of doubt in her eyes. My partner knows I am not typical, one of the reasons we are partners, but also a reason why I can frustrate Milga with my decision making.
Bending my knees l lower my wounded bird. “You move and you die,” I whisper, certain only she can hear. I place Zoria beside the campfire and stand, hands on my hips, Lord of all I survey.
“Rexa, remove her armour.” I point to Zoria. “Especially any near the wound.”
Koria adds the firewood she fetches to the fire and the flames leap to consume the new fuel. Duzsia hands off the knife she returns with, hesitating, eyelids fluttering. I reward her begging with a passionate kiss after which she dances away. I place the knife in the flames and as I stand Luda presents a wad of leather to me, hanging by my side, frowning.
I raise an eyebrow as Rexa rather enthusiastically removes Zoria’s armour and underclothes, the bottom curves of her breasts are in plain view, while the carpet of her upper loins reflects well in the firelight, the dark green ringlets a contrast against her light green skin. All through this ordeal, Zoria remains motionless, her hand still gripping the cloth around the knife.
Attempting to place the wad of leather in Zoria’s mouth, she closes her lips down tight.
“Punching you in the stomach is an option or you can just open your mouth,” I state.
Her jaw opens slowly as I push the wad forward.
“Bite down.”
Her eyes ask why, yet she complies.
I remove her hand from around the cloth, resistance brief after I stare and ball my fist. Pulling the cloth away, I feel the tug of congealed blood and while her eyes fly wide open, lips trembling in support Zoria doesn’t protest knowing full well I will beat her if I must. As I finally fling the cloth away blood oozes anew from the wound. Now is the time. I reach for the knife resting in the fire, the copper blade red hot, glowing and as I draw the weapon closer to my patient, her body tries to edge away from the heat, while her eyes close tight. I am ready, the glowing blade now hovers over her belly, the radiating heat will be hers to endure and with no escape she claws at the ground, fingers digging into the soil while biting down of the wad of leather.
“Rexa, use some of her armour to prop her body up, head and upper torso.”
With the distraction going on, I ease the knife from her wound. She takes a deep breath – a blade sliding out of your own flesh, not a pleasant sensation. With the folds of her skin knit close together because of the abdominal crunch of her raised torso I dart in with the glowing blade, laying the flat across the cut. The sizzle and stink of burning flesh and black goblin blood fill my nostrils and I almost fall back collecting my balance just in time. I know of human flesh and blood, unprepared for the other. I look up and her razor-sharp teeth tear into the wad of leather. I note for future, leather preferable, goblin jaws will smash any wooden stick able to fit in their mouths. I remove the blade, some of the glow gone.
Tears flow from Zoria’s eyes while she continues to chew down on the leather.
I inspect my handiwork, the searing of flesh a neat affair, not certain if the result a feature of their skin and flesh, my skill, or a combination of both.
“You will need to clean the wound location with cool, recently boiled water and nothing else at least twice a day and use bandages which have been boiled and dried. You can nominate one or two of the captives to attend to you.” I spare a glance towards the captives. “While you live, they live.”
As I stand, a hand rests on my forearm. Milga. She tilts her head away from the campfire and my cottage. I nod and follow her.
At the Farm fence, she swivels about. “I am your sworn partner. You need no other.”
I reach out for her shoulders and she twists her body free, having none of the placating gesture. Hands-on hips I examine her. Proud, defiant, and loyal; betrayed herself by the games of her tribe’s Elders she refuses to accept anything less now.
“Who should I send to fetch back the ransom for number four?”
“I will see the task done. You don’t need her …”
The raw emotion and passion in her voice a surprise to me. She isn’t thinking logically driven by another need. Never will she be my wife, happy with Zeb fathering her future daughter. Surely, she can’t believe I would never add another to my retinue.
“You will always be my most trusted, most loyal partner regardless of who comes next …”
She spits, interrupting my earnest speech. “Such a big hairless dumbass. Of course, I will be all those things, but none of that matters if you are dead … after one little test you believe her loyal, sworn to you?”
She did stab herself, although granted not immediately life-threatening … still, I refuse to accept I set her a little test, I inwardly decide.
Milga continues, her words in full flight ignoring any self-reflection on my part. “She is a goblin, a killer one at that who kidnaps on orders. Job then payment. What convinces you her loyalty can’t be bought for a big enough payment?”
She turns away and slams both of her hands upon the top railing of the Farm fence. I take that as a speech finished signal.
“I don’t want you to fetch the ransom.” She turns around in an instant her mouth open to speak. “My turn,” I growl. She closes her mouth slowly, realising, as a Hob and her being trapped against the Farm fence I would be able to grab and tear her body in half.
“Why would I risk you, when I can send number six to collect the ransom on number four? She fails, I don’t care. She succeeds, the ransom is mine and perhaps some doubt over her loyalty is removed.”
Milga leans against the fence rail, her arms stretching out along the rail on either side. I notice, much to my shame her twin mounds pop slightly, breasts pressing for release against the restraint of her leather armour, more inviting than usual, my Hob loins stirring. Perhaps she notices as she folds her arms across her chest.
“At times I think you’re not Hob and then at others, like now, lust-filled eyes and all.” She glances at my loins. “And you clear away any doubt.”
Well, ‘perhaps’ is not the reality of the situation and even with her reveal my pecker is keen. I can’t say another word as lust would lace each one.
“One thing your addled mind hasn’t thought about is if she spills all she knows and returns with a job to slay you, or perhaps another team is sent to capture you? What then?”
I nod.
“Speak …” She shakes her head and then stops to shout. “Duzsia attend to your husband.”
I try to speak, fail, and then shake my head from side to side. Somehow, I imagine Milga with a leather whip. Not helping!
Duzsia arrives glances at Milga and then stares at me or more precisely my loins.
“Pants down, hands on the lower rail wife of a Hob,” commands Milga.
With a gleeful smile, Duzsia hurries to comply.
I stare at the bare wiggling buttocks of Duzsia, an inviting leer cast over her shoulder.
A slap on my shoulder. “Well satisfy yourself and we’ll talk later when you are in a better state of mind. I will send your wives over in turn, I think you will need them all.”
All I have is a dumb stare as Milga trots off back to my cottage.
“Husband please satisfy your needs. Milga is being so unfair because it isn’t your fault, you are called to duty beyond your control. This is the time of sowing …”
I advance. The lustful Hob within me shutting down all possible protest. I am a slave to a ritual of procreation.
“… oh husband …”
---
I hear bird twitter. I am certain I lay in a bed, the soft embrace of mattress and sheets comforting, no unforgiving bed of dirt that is for certain.
My eyes open to a hush of conversation, the exposed timber roof of my cabin a welcome sight. Odd, I feel cool air across most of my body. I crane my head down, yep naked, more important though my pecker is half-mast. This triggers a vague memory, last night a haze of lustful debauchery, the details struggling to surface.
I try to work my mouth, dry as desert sand. I close my eyes to work up some salvia. “Water …” I croak.
In an instant water rolls down my throat from a cup conveniently held to my lips. I open my eyes after draining the source of my sustenance. Milga stands over me, the look of a disappointed mother on her face.
“What?” I ask. My empty stomach growls.
“Didn’t you wonder about the boar, the gathering of goblins around the fire, the dancing …”
I shake my head real slow from side to side. Wasn’t I meant to share?
Milga kneels her lips a finger’s width from my ears. “The previous you would request a boar from the Hunter Hob I am told, consuming its flesh over several days and between those fierce bouts of devouring, sow his seed. While your wives are well satisfied there are many on the Farm yet to be and expect to be.” She stands, hands locking around the back of her neck. “I didn’t know of this … tradition … on your Farm so I fetched your wives to erm cure you.”
Her hands drop as a gnawing hunger squatting within my stomach commands my attention, an entire leg of boar flesh consumed, and the subsequent energy expended to sustain the sowing of my wives. The scent of roasting boar flesh reaches my nostrils. My eyes creep down the length of my body to confirm the revival of my pecker.
“No …” My eyes are wide in surprise. Milga shakes her head and with urgency grabs the coffle of prisoners. I didn’t notice their presence until now, and I throw a questioning look at Milga as dark leering clouds gather within my mind.
“In case your wives failed to exhaust you, they would’ve been next not me … I didn’t know until this morning there was no need to worry,” she smirks, “there is a line-up waiting for you outside. As your partner, I feel it is my duty to rescue your captives from your unrestrained loins so you can keep your promise to those waiting outside …”
The haze in my mind solidifies with purpose as the last of the prisoners leave my sight. Food first and then sowing. I maintain a vague awareness of my surroundings, enough to feel a cool breeze upon my skin as I plod through the door of my cabin. Feet apart, hands-on naked hips I am a purposeful beast on display. My nose guides my arm as I reach for a leg of boar resting upon the table nearby and rip into the flesh for my first bite to break my fast. Rest time is over. The sharp intake of breath I hear is a welcome and an acknowledgement of my intent from those waiting in line outside my cabin. As my gaze flies over them, some gulp, others sigh, more twitter to those next to them in excitement. Most are ugly, yet the Hob in me dismisses my quibble.
My human voice is small, enough remains though to acknowledge I have not yet gone ‘native’, although this is my closest brush with the state. The unstrained freedom is intoxicating, I can act how I am expected to act, I can join and function as expected within this native population and ultimately be accepted within this community for my actions. That is the seduction for Agents who otherwise live many lives and yet know, even when human, they are visiting and the impossibility of a family line, father and mother, grandfather and grandmother and so on reaching back or forward in time. Yet here, occupying an inhabitant’s flesh bag I can procreate and start a family line that will live through the history of this planet. This implies does it not, the sterile flesh bags provided by the GPA are considered to have gone native when they can somehow procreate. A question, therefore, needs to be answered. Is this ability to procreate due to an unintentional trigger like a design flaw perhaps, or premeditated at design time or event dependent trigger, or a controlled trigger. All have various implications, although the last few particularly sinister as the GPA can have some or an absolute control when Agents go native.
As my human side contemplates, my Hobgoblin side, the naked and engorged Farmer Hob Lord Klug the Tenderer throws the fleshless boar leg bone to the ground and advances with lustful purpose towards the first female goblin in the line …