“I am Chief Bor Bone Eye of the Blood Bones tribe and we request the return of our goblin sister.”
The sight of this demanding four-foot-high, generous bellied goblin, arms crossed upon his chest and feet apart in a word, ridiculous. I short circuit my Hob nature with dismissive humour – huh. Adding to this display of righteousness another of his tribe stands behind him pointing at the coffle. My gaze moves along to the next emissary, a leather-encased creature from leather cap upon its head to soft leather boots upon its feet, barely a patch of green skin visible.
Most likely observing my indifference to Chief Bor’s display of authority the next in line shifts his feet slightly while doffing his leather cap. As my eyes fall upon him his head bobs about, longish ears laying back. “Mighty Hob, your generosity is well known as is your swift disposal of enemies and traitors, the Sharp Fangs tribe will swear fealty to you upon return of our goblin sister.”
Fealty is good I muse, but why are these goblin sisters so important?
I leave him without an answer and absently nod to the next in line catching him in a sideways glance, adroitly erasing the look of disgust across his face before addressing me.
He takes a knee. “Lord Hob I, Meb Sharp Eye wishes to reclaim my mate. Those who follow me in this task are my loyal followers such is my influence within the Laughing Tusks tribe.” Climbing to his feet, he declares, “I will pay a generous ransom for her return.”
Upon this cue, a couple of his followers stagger forward dragging a sack each. I wave them away noting they don’t wear leather armour, instead they make use of sections of tree bark and bound sticks of wood like you bind when building a make-shift raft, only smaller to fit shins and forearms. Meb’s true armour the same except a thin leather wrap over disguises the fact unless looked for.
I am almost positive I fail to conceal my shock about his armour while taking a step towards the last visitor in line. With Meb surprising me, I inspect this leader twice and discover another anomaly, a female goblin Leader stands before me. Even more disconcerting she wears an annoyed expression on her face while looking around me to examine the coffle line. The voluminous robes swathing her body probably a clue for everyone else, not registering with me until I study her chest, which protrudes beyond what is reasonable for a male.
“Do you wish to fornicate with the Hob or return to your tribe?” she asks.
I stand aside trying to follow her eyes and identify who she addresses. It turns out this is simple, the one in the coffle licking her lips. I also conclude the Matriarch isn’t an heir or lessor functionary but the Tribal Leader, there is no hesitation in her negotiating.
“Stay and fornicate with the Hob, my Matriarch.”
Confirmation then, “my Matriarch”. A disrespectful tapping upon my forearm draws my attention.
“She is willing to fornicate with you and has been well fed for the task this hunting season therefore one in every two younglings born by her will be returned to the tribe. We will supply meat in exchange. Do you agree?”
“No,” I answer, not for any other reason but to wait for her next play, since I am convinced, she is the Tribal Leader and able to raise the reward.
“Why not?” Her response quick and immediate, sweeping the cowl of her robes back to reveal a face of feminine displeasure.
My Hob nature rises, urging me to smash this display of disrespect, instead, with a steady calm I reply, “She is ugly.”
“Rut from behind,” she shrugs.
“I am not ugly!” yells a voice from the coffle. “I even have meat on my bones unlike the miserable hussies you mated with these past two days and I will bear healthy babes!”
I swivel and stare her down. “You have born babes before? Were they strong and healthy?”
The other goblin sisters in the coffle shift about while the visitors take to murmuring amongst themselves breaking their passive silence. The other Goblin Leaders previously captivated I presume by the horse-trading between myself and the female Goblin Leader but now drawn in given my suggestion I needed proof.
“That … is the gamble, those you have captured are virgins,” admits the Matriarch. “They are from strong bloodlines, their mothers once virgins and the hope of their tribe, like these, are now.”
I couldn’t accept the folly of placing all their hope in one bloodline, what foolishness … Throwing my hands in the air I about-face and march upon the Matriarch who backpedals in response, gathering her robes and trying not to trip over. The comical sight allowing me to come to my senses and I halt, just as quickly as I charged.
“You all depend upon one bloodline for your tribe’s future? What stupidity is that?” I stare at each, in turn, ending up back at the Matriarch my larger body frame hulking over the diminutive female goblin.
Biting her bottom lip and then swallowing the Matriarch finds more than a few words. “This is not by choice. Our fatted virgins are taken year after year until we are now down to our last. We have rescued some in the past … usually though they are just taken and lost to us while past fatted virgins still of bearing age have … accidents.”
I grunt in thought. It would seem these goblin tribes have a tradition of controlled breeding so the tribes grow stronger, probably due to inter-tribal wars and yet there is an active campaign to sabotage this to keep them weaker than they otherwise could be. Wandering a fair distance away from my visitors I call over Milga and Zeb to join me.
“What if I kept them all and told the tribes they would be under my protection and in exchange for meat they can claim any babes?”
Milga wears a polite agreeable smile even nodding her head and I pick up on the ruse, a show for those observing. “Sometimes those in charge don’t always appreciate a great outcome if commanded to participate. I would suggest negotiating to aim for such an outcome and accept any imperfections as fate.”
Zeb clears his throat. “Lord, I support Milga’s council. If you take, at some point if not immediately, one or more of the tribes will war against you. Given they have met in a similar circumstance I wouldn’t be surprised if they ally at some future time against their common enemy instead of their real enemy.”
“I value you both …” I say while considering their advice and yes, the real enemy, that is what I need to direct them towards, and this negotiation is the path to that outcome. I deliberately draw both to me, an arm wrapping around each holding for a significant time and then releasing.
My visitors remain apart as they wait for my return. This suggests their presence is due to a common cause and they remain separate tribes for a reason and even if they decide I am an enemy I doubt they would ally; this could be problematic for any of my future designs … Smiling, arms open wide I stroll back to resume our discussions, Milga on my right and Zeb on my left.
“Matriarch, my advisors have convinced me to accept your original proposal if it is still on offer,” I announce.
Her eyes narrow. “Why the change?”
“I will take her as my wife and ensure she is bountiful until her childbearing days are done.”
The Matriarch shrugs. “Wife, concubine, breeder – no difference to me as long as my tribe gains one of every two newborns …”
She smiles and signals to her camp turning away.
“One more thing,” I call out, raising a finger.
Her about-face is slow, a half-turn …
“I need your tribe to scout and watch a certain mountain pass.” I raise my hand pointing in the general direction of the mountain pass.
“Such a request would be my tribe’s honour, except I am certain other tribes, in particular, Laughing Tusks and Sharp Fangs wouldn’t welcome my Spears upon their lands, even if travelling through on behalf of yourself.” She finishes with a wide smile, one which has got the cream and the cat, more than willing to comply, but regrettably beyond her control to do so.
“How did you travel to my Farm?”
“By paying tribute, first to Sharp Fangs when the kidnappers tracks led into their lands and then Laughing Tusks who all must pay. Over the years the tribute has been well settled at one beast payable every dusk, yet this still delays the pursuit.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Why must all pay Laughing Tusks?”
Sighing, her hands rise to wave about to assist in the explaining. “Simple, they can be negotiated with and the kidnappers avoid travelling through Blood Suns and Flint Arrows the other choices, for obvious reasons.”
I raise an eyebrow. “For obvious reasons?”
Taking a moment to stare at me her hands rest on her hips. “The Blood Suns are mindless berserk drunks, while the Flint Arrows are deadly and territorial. Surely you know this. I count three, possibly four amongst your most trusted. Don’t you know who you keep company with?”
I don’t avert my gaze from the Matriarch and don’t respond either, instead, I decide to add another to the discussion.
“Meb Sharp Eye, what bargain can I strike with you to allow Spears from Grim Weavers to trespass upon your lands safely and free of tribute while on my business?” I am guessing Meb is no Master Hunter or heir but the actual authoritative leader of his tribe as he is in pursuit of his mate and the Matriarch has already spoken of bloodlines.
The Matriarch smirks while listening to my question, to her mind I request the impossible.
He laughs. His sharp eyes turning to examine me, instead of beyond me. “I notice your Spears wield metal-tipped spears. The Laughing Tusks would accept ten such spears to grant free trespass to your trusted friends the Grim Weavers.”
“No!” protests Chief Bor. “There is a balance, those tribes bordering the plains hunt the great beasts at great cost, hunters die. The beasts provide bone for bows, arrows, and spears. Meat for trade. Laughing Tusks' craft wood, the arrow shafts, the spear shafts amongst other items in exchange. With metal-tipped spears, they would hunt their own beasts or raid us.”
“So, the metal tip spears would be of vast value to the Laughing Tusks …” I tap a finger on my chin, feigning deep thought. “In that case any tribe on my business can safely trespass, free of tribute through your lands Meb Sharp Eye and you have a deal, although I would take a wife from your tribe to bind us. What say you?”
Meb hoots at the top of his lungs punching his fist skywards. “Agreed!”
“The Sharp Fangs have already offered an alliance with Lord Farmer Hob. We will seal this by marriage also, to our goblin sister you have captive, so swears Chief Grol Shatter Eye.”
So, you also are a Chief no less, my reply quick. “I agree to help defend your tribe if you come to my aid if attacked and also agree to patrol the mountain pass.”
“Agreed.”
“This is madness,” hollers Chief Bor.
Chief Grol turns to Chief Bor and snaps back, “No. If Laughing Tusks attack us with their metal-tipped spears Lord Farmer Hob is obligated to come to our aid and since Laughing Tusks' lands are nearby, retribution will be swift.”
Meb Sharp Eye joins the two chiefs forming an impromptu discussion circle – do I see three tribal leaders in discussion and not at each other?
“Don’t assume our use of the spears. Many a season the three tribes nearest the plains don’t have enough meat to spare. With these spears, we can hunt for ourselves and fend off mead induced raids from the Blood Suns.”
Chief Bor goes quiet and then looks directly at me.
“If the Blood Bones tribe entered into an Alliance with Lord Farmer Hob, would you come to our aid if the Flint Arrows tribe attack us?”
I smile, this is a trap of sorts. “I would, although I would inform the Flint Arrows tribe of our alliance and the consequences, but also allow them to bring any grievances to me if for example an ally of mine raided or otherwise provoked them without cause.”
Chief Bor’s face loses colour, although he quickly recovers. “I would still offer an alliance as we have no intention of butting heads with the Flint Arrows tribe.”
“Sealed by marriage and including patrol of the mountain pass?” I confirm.
“Yes, although how many to watch the pass?”
His question, like a magnet, draws the interest of the other three.
“It depends upon what you would like to accomplish.” I allow the words to hang in the air, they all glance about trying to determine if someone has the answer to my question and I suppose, wonder why they have the choice.
I continue. “To observe and report back, probably two well-concealed hunters with at least two escape paths back to my Farm. To rescue any prisoners and capture or slay any guards probably many more. Your hunters will be able to take the guards superior armour and weapons but as time passes, they will be more careful and difficult to surprise so you will still need numbers to win the day.”
In a deadpan voice, Meb Sharp Eye replies, “Fewer hunters even two will mean less meat, Laughing Tusks can only commit to two hunters Lord Hob.”
“You fools!” gasps the Matriarch. “They raid from the plains and flee through the mountain pass. All you are accomplishing is witnessing them take their prizes.”
Chief Grol retorts, “We can’t commit more, our tribes would starve.”
I sweep an arm towards the growing fields. “Food will be in abundance once the crop matures and is harvested and baring any calamity, I will guarantee none of those tribes allied to me will starve.”
Silence. The four leaders stare at me and as obvious as the noses on their faces, I read the machinations going on behind their eyes as they try to calculate how I will gain or possibly take advantage of them at a future time.
The Matriarch straightens and in doing so snaps her robes in place. “How can we trust you as your words talk about a future promise?”
“I am accepting the same risk, what if my brides are all barren or beget sickly babes …?”
Chief Bor shakes his head. “They shouldn’t, all are from strong bloodlines, yet if you can supply food, perhaps after delivery on this promise we can set a different trap for our kidnappers.”
“I am listening.”
“When we hunt upon the plains a great deal of time is taken to choose the right beast, not large enough to defeat the hunting party, not sickly of course, while wounded is welcome but unfortunately rare. Ideally a lonely animal off from the main herd. During this wait, the kidnappers raid our villages. They must watch from afar to pick the right time to strike.”
“Makes sense,” I prod.
“What if we send out our females with a couple of hunters as guides to pretend to hunt. The hunters remaining behind will be able to ambush the raiders, many to one on tribal land well known to us.”
Two of the three leaders laugh with intent. Chief Grol adds, “The food you supply must be delivered secretly because any change to our ways could alert the raiders and of course they don’t always strike during the first hunt of the season.”
“They strike us last,” states Meb Sharp Eye. He glances about, checking to ensure he has their attention. “If you trust in our alliance, I will offer Spears to assist in this plan, after all, if they are defeated in your lands, they won’t be able to steal from ours.”
I swallow and with effort maintain a neutral face. The shock of the offer plain on the faces of the others present, including Milga and Zeb. The offer is significant, co-operation between the goblin tribes and if accepted then this world has been changed at last.
“I … we … why?” stutters Chief Grol.
“By helping you, my tribe is protected. With this threat gone our numbers should increase and we can finally deal with the Blood Suns …” states Meb with complete confidence.
The Matriarch steps forward, face to face with Meb. “We won’t stand by and let you conquer the Blood Suns and claim their lands.”
“I thought a better arrangement would be to attack together and split their lands amongst us …” retorts Meb hands on his hips, rocking back on his heels.
“No!” Both Chief Grol and Chief Bor protest at the same time.
Meb faces off both Chiefs. “You can take some of our lands if you want, our tribe is there because we can’t be where you or any of the other tribes are, no other reason. Once I believe we are strong enough I would prefer to claim the lands near the mountain pass. You contribute by guarding the plains, the Laughing Tusks will contribute by guarding the mountain pass and any food shortage will be covered by Lord Farmer Hob. I have absolute faith in him because I must. Laughing Tusks are the weakest of the four tribes and if nothing changes, we will eventually fade away. When has a Hob shown interest in any goblin tribe?” He points at me. “Never in my tribe’s living memory so Laughing Tusks are going to gamble our future on this Hob, who doesn’t act like a Hob.”
One of those awkward moments manifests and I break the silence.
“First I need four brides …”
The Matriarch picks up her robes and shuffles forward, pointing towards the coffle. “Take Lazsia first she is in heat.”
Milga steps forward taking the coffle and marches them towards the river. I did consider just consummating the marriage and done, yet with no way to discuss this privately, my partner has decided for me. This isn’t a bad thing, although my new goblin allies may reconsider when they witness their virgins drowning and then remarkably survive death – possibly.
Meb rushes towards the coffle line to be blocked by Zeb. He then turns to me. “Marriage, but not my mate!”
“The Hob demands bloodline virgins from three of us, why not the fourth,” answers the Matriarch.
His pleading eyes fall upon me, searching for sympathy, permit an exception and yet I can’t grant what he pleads for and in silence, I follow my future wives. Chief Grol and Chief Bor encourage him to follow the impromptu procession.
My wives, including Rexa, need to hold down the three waiting promised wives as I drown Lazsia before their eyes. I am certain the Matriarch, although quiet, especially after her advice to Meb, nevertheless stews re-evaluating the situation and by extension the alliance as does the other leaders. I hear the buzz of their discussions growing louder and then in an instant silenced as Lazsia rises and survives her apparent death. The remaining three goblin sisters witness the same miracle as everyone else, yet for each, I must manhandle them into the river screaming fully understanding their reluctance. To solve any hesitancy within me I call upon my Hob nature to proceed without sympathy.
Meb’s eyes don’t leave his mate throughout the entire process and I can discern his amazement upon witnessing the promised wives going from resisting to resigned, his mate no exception. He approaches her, arms wide, face apologetic.
“I am no longer yours. I belong to him. You have won your alliance now, so enjoy its bounty with another for I am now beyond your reach,” she says and then joins her sister-wives leaving him on his knees, alone.
The two Chiefs flank him while I fetch another promised wife and I overhear their sage advice; ‘the price of leadership is often personal sacrifice and only you can judge if the price is worth the benefit’.
---
At deed end, the visitors and those invited from my Farm by Zeb gather around a wild boar sizzling upon a spit devouring portions of meat according to importance and appetite. This gathering caps off a world-shattering day amongst the goblin tribes and I just need to steer and guide them now to ensure what has started here becomes a legacy, not something that withers over time as each leader dies.
A giggle. “Lord Hob?”
My wife Duzsia, full of energy and body bobbing up and down wears a delightful grin across her lips winning my undivided attention.
“Yes?”
“Your brides are ready.”
I climb to my feet, nodding to each leader in turn before I follow my wife to my cabin. Meb seems to have reconciled the cost.
“One at a time wife, I would welcome them with my full and undivided attention.”
A giggle. “Yes, husband.”
---
The glow of the fireplace casts a warm light upon eight naked and content female goblin bodies which I can untangle and escape without disturbing their sleep. Once the four new wives were serviced the night became a free for all, until they all tired from my attentions. The co-operation and participation from the new wives varied from absolute commitment with Lazsia, acceptance from Bekto and Zuxa to begrudging reluctance from Meb’s former mate, Ligia.
Pushing the cabin door open I welcome the cooling breeze, waiting for Milga to report or comment as is her way, instead, another approaches my cabin.