The cooling waters of the river gurgle a protest as they flow over my bootless feet. My last memory of this activity not my most noble moment while existing amongst these creatures and on this planet. The Hob inside me is emotionally quiet and only now I realise ‘his’ background presence is gone as well. My humanity sits in the sole judgement of my past deeds; the good, the bad and the unavoidable and as I balance my behaviour along moral lines, I question the way I am making a difference. Is this right? Wouldn’t the goblins be their best if left alone and Hobs left this planet …
Clearing my mind, I search for answers in the sky above observing a large formation of dark fluffy clouds. They cast shade upon the Farm and me, yet they don’t seem rain-bearing. The crops could do with a good drenching about now I muse. I savour these quiet moments …
“She insists, Lord.”
She does have a gentle screech then … I glance over my shoulder and the elder assists Zoria, somehow content to lean against the old goblin whereas before she fought to prove herself fit. The clouds may not be rain-bearing but they did carry portent of a dark arrival … a disturbance to my hard-won serenity.
“What can she add to ‘I conducted the ransom swap, and I lost the knife. I beg forgiveness for my incompetence’ …?”
The crunch of river stone announces my visitor’s choice to push through my ‘unwelcome’ and sit beside me … how does she not take the hint, now is not the time or place. I have another two on my mind … Koria and Duzsia … why didn’t I restrain them, no, as Lord Hob order them to remain with me. I have even avoided Zana and Gato … yet this … this, I don’t know what she is, insists to take time from me! The Hob within begins to stir and I welcome his return.
“… the tribal goblins through the pass welcomed the return of the ransom and they quickly secreted Zoga and me from the eyes of others …”
The words of her story float by … and then my inner Hob awakens me, I fish out something of worth.
“How did you sneak through the pass?” My Hob tells me to not worry about my wives, pfft only goblins, this is a waste of my energy he urges. Yet I can’t deny the feelings I have for them ... confusing. The Hob inside me chuckles in response, deriding my emotional dilemma. I automatically refute his judgement of course and therefore grow my feelings into a passion. Doesn’t he understand they are mine and I can’t lose them …
“Zoga and I pretended we survived and needed to lay low for a time before trying to cross the mountains. Fortunately, the different goblin tribes take turns guarding the pass and since you slew the Ranger Hob there are none to replace him, so he doesn’t stand there any longer … the questioning is less thorough now.”
I wave for her to continue, my eyes more intent on the school of fish fighting against the current of the rushing river. The water is so clear and without the sun reflecting off the surface the silver slithers are easy to spot. The dismissive Hob inside fades away … from my immediate concern. I reconcile with the worry I have for my wives; I need to go forth, take actions that ensure they never have to leave my side again. They are mine and I can’t lose them.
“Zoga’s tribe were the tribal goblins coming to relieve the current tribe on the pass, so they quickly secreted us away,” she continues.
“Where, who is your tribe?”
There is silence and I need to turn my head. “The truth please,” I ask with kindness I don’t believe I hold for this goblin, yet the gurgling river, cool water upon my feet, school of fish and clouding sky all conspire to disarm my frustration with her.
She turns a river rock over in her hand. “I don’t have a tribe,” her voice a hush. “The Ranger Hob was my tribe for most of my life and I don’t remember much before …”
This explains a lot, her reluctance to return, her need to ally with another Hob. Perhaps the Ranger Hob was a substitute father … one which I killed. Does she intend to get close to me and take revenge?
“The Chief Hob would joke that my tribe left me behind because they knew as a child, I wouldn’t grow up to be anything …”
She throws her rock, and it lands in the river with a loud splash. Her lazy aim perfect, scattering the school of fish previously contributing to my calm …
“But I proved that beast wrong …”
“What do you mean, left behind?”
“The Head Hob and Smith Hob would joke between them – a goblin tribe wandered the plains, dodging the herds and even riding some of the beasts. They reckon I fell off one of the beasts and the fall damaged my head, so they left me behind when passing by the valley and the Ranger Hob took me in as a pet. This also explains why I can’t remember …”
There is a pain in her eyes, which I try to dismiss because of her wounds ... I decide otherwise.
She is emotionally down, on the verge of tears, now is the time … I reach around and grasp her by the throat. Her eyes bug out and even the elder waves and shapes her arms to intervene somehow, yet my eyes warn her off.
“So, you plan to get close and slay me for slaying your Ranger Hob!” I growl.
She struggles to speak, and I release my hold – enough.
“I know no other master but Hob, I know no other tribe but Hob … I was the Ranger’s pet alright! He would throw me scraps and I would crawl on hands and knees, eat from the dirt without using my hands, warm his feet, be his footrest … I became jealous the moment I saw how you treated the prisoners, mere goblins, let alone your wives …” She sniffs yet doesn’t cry. “I hated being his pet, yet I didn’t know there was better … there existed a Lord Farmer Hob …”
I throw her back. She clenches her teeth; I suppose suppressing the pain of her injuries.
“I see a wretch grasping at whatever better situation she can find. Another Hob first, then when I reject you, one of the Chiefs?”
Her eyes become slits as I am certain pain lances through her body while crawling in jerking motions towards me. One hand stretching out. “Never. I have known no other … Master …” She exhales and sinks to the ground ignoring the river stone beneath her.
The elder rushes to her side. “Fainted from pain, you proud of yourself?”
“I am Hob, and you best remember your place,” I snarl.
“I … I apologise Lord. She is lost, that is all.” Her eyes flutter away. “Can you carry her …?”
I grunt and throw my head back, swearing to the sky.
---
I stretch out at my table observing the hive of farm activity before me. A cough draws my attention. Redagar approaches my table from the kitchen cabin side of my cabin, although not directly. His hands hold and twist his cap as he bobs his head.
Throwing a hand towards the table, he takes the hint to draw up and sit in a chair beside mine. His bottom is half-on, half-off as if he is preparing to bolt at a moment’s notice.
“Do not worry Redagar you have proven your loyalty to me and have toiled to enhance the livelihoods of your fellow goblins. Speak freely.”
“Kexog wished to apologise, Lord,” his immediate response. “I persuaded him against such a thing. He … he is aware of his misdeed Lord and wishes to ask how he can make up for his lapse of judgement to you?”
Tapping the table with my forefinger I study my Head Goblin. He is willing to be the messenger of one he knows irritates me.
“Tell him he can receive my forgiveness as his reward for the burning of the dead he and his gang perform on my behalf.”
“Yes, Lord Hob, he will be pleased, erm … another matter…” He takes in a deep breath. “Your wives sent the work gang back Lord. They did council against the idea …”
I rise from my seat and step away from the table until I find and lean on a post, trying to relax. ‘Their choice’ I repeat to myself. ‘Don’t punish the messenger’ I follow up with.
“Continue, if there is blame it lay with them, tell me what you can.”
“Jozox, Lord. The name of the Gang Leader, they ran after your wives as fast as they could, your wives didn’t rest … his gang are all hardy and strong workers Lord, yet they tire from running, used to carrying loads and hacking … things. Your wives insisted he and his gang return, to tell they were following a strong trail and would be two, possibly three days at most.”
“Confident?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Jozox asked who they were Lord. He then knew who they escorted and their importance to you. While he did protest, they claimed they knew what they were doing, assure Lord Hob they said, they would play one group off against the other and swoop in at the end. They needed to be there in time for the battle though …”
I’ve heard of that strategy before, of course. Koria and Duzsia … sounds more like Koria Keen Eye with Duzsia following without protest … her name, establishing her superiority between the two, I am sure.
“They are accomplished, yet they need my protection,” I murmur to myself. “Anything else to report Head Goblin?”
I return to the table and notice him shift more fully onto his chair.
“The corpses are burnt and buried Lord. Several work gangs have asked to be farmhands … the blood, the faces you understand … they wish to see things grow.”
I nod and wave him to continue.
“This will mean a shortage of workers, so with your permission the building of the new birthing barracks will be our main task.”
“Understandable, ask Jotor if some of his farmhands wish to try a different trade.”
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“Pfft. I will ask …”
I stretch back in my chair again. “He doesn’t like to share?”
“No Lord.”
“Give him a couple of days to share and then return to me.”
He chews and grinds his teeth, looks up and then stares down at the table … I whisper encouragement.
“I am but a Head Goblin in your service, I know nothing of your plans and courting of the tribal goblins, yet Lord, I must warn you of my suspicions. I value silence and getting on with the job, yet several of my Gang Leaders reported the dead being delivered naked after the initial onslaught, armour and weapons gone. Early on we kept such ourselves and maybe the tribes realised the value.”
I get his worry; he feels some guilt in giving away this idea. “They realised themselves, initially they cleared the battlefield of the dead as quickly as possible and then they had time to claim the armour and weapons from the dead, don’t concern yourself. Continue.”
He bobs his head. “Lord, the Laughing Tusks especially, the other three tribes rarely so, would boast of their great conquest as they left the Blood Suns dead with us. At times Lord … the gangs felt they would be next ‘on their list’. I spent time with my gangs to overhear this ‘talk’ for myself and I am convinced the Laughing Tusks plan against you.”
“Thank you Redagar, I will be cautious around my allies when next we meet. If the culling is over, I expect them to return and discuss a fair division of the spoils.”
“Yes, Lord. I return to service.”
Shifting back his chair, he bows and places his cap upon his head. Turning away he scurries around the corner of my cabin and leaves my sight.
On cue, a procession of sorts approaches the Farm … I also note my new wives taking an interest.
---
Meb paces. I observe his deliberate, forceful steps yet the walls of the kitchen cabin constrain him against his will, and I inwardly smile. In contrast, the Matriarch favours me with doe eyes, content. Of her escort, one huntress in particular stares right through me. Chief Grol seats himself upon a bench, waiting, expectant. Chief Bor stands beside him, legs apart – a display of confidence? The one common thing lacking in all of them is a degree of respectable fear. My Hob boils away underneath … and on principle, my human nature joins in.
They arrived together, each with an armed escort, yet in a blatant sign of disrespect none with any Blood Suns captives to offer. While doubtful of their appreciation of me, I decided to invite them into a private meeting before airing any of my discontent before their followers and the Farm. The Matriarch, leaning on our previous liaison pleaded with me to allow three of her Huntresses to escort her, obviously trusting them to keep any discussions secret while I otherwise wonder why they are here. Meb and the two chiefs didn’t seem to mind, which brings us here.
“You all consider the cull complete and yet I see no sign of gratitude …” I offer.
Meb snaps, “Gratitude! Our tribesmen and tribeswomen died, shed blood and you expect a share?”
I ignore him and address the two chiefs. “Do you both feel the same way? Does he speak for all?”
Chief Bor splutters, “His words are stronger than we would use yet …”
“Much stronger … still the fact remains none of yours shed blood Lord Hob,” says the Matriarch. I sense our brief liaison secondary to the business at hand now. Her responsibility to her tribe awakens before me, my initial assessment of her eyes wrong … diner looking down upon a delicious meal would be a better description upon reflection.
“I expect the Blood Suns females and children to be taken to the pits and slain to complete the cull to ensure my report to the Head Hob is true and correct. Then of course there is the issue of the second tribe to be decided upon.” I eye each in turn. They freeze upon instinct and then recover after several heartbeats. I appear to have done the impossible, unite four goblin tribes. Worse, they feel confident enough in their alliance to brush off my implied threat.
“Lord Hob, we can’t comply,” says Chief Grol, shaking his head. “You see the women and children, upon seeing their male loved ones slaughtered in battle choose to die by their own hand.” He looks about the room, receiving solemn nods of confirmation. “After every battle, in every village we carried the unfortunates into a single cottage and fired the building to burn the bodies, to quench the smell you understand.”
Meb halts his pacing beside a now standing Chief Grol while the Matriarch shifts to join the three. A defiant wall of tribal leadership, standing against the big mean horrible me?
“We would of course welcome your support to cull a second tribe. The Flint Arrows need to be swept aside, their superiority a stink for too long in this valley.” Chief Bor announcing our next objective, smooth, as if a done deal.
The Hob in me boils over. I wish to release him and jump the kitchen bench to slaughter the four ungrateful goblin parasites. They only consider the present. United, even if I defeated them, they would be able to destroy the growing crop and all my plans would be for naught. I have erred, I see that now. I have demonstrated to them they can cooperate to achieve immediate discrete goals, but I haven’t extrapolated into the future and described the benefits for all. Even the Matriarch played me on a micro-level by securing my bloodline if she and her newborn survive childbirth.
I change tact and smile, throwing my arms wide. “The Flint Arrows, invade their land, the dense old-growth forest they call theirs? I ventured twice into their lands and have a few of their tribe serving me.” I shake my head. “No. You still have the scent of an easy victory in your noses, slaughtering drunks wouldn’t even be a warmup to the battle you would face to cull the Flint Arrows.”
I place my hands flat upon the bench to anchor them from my wrath, forcing a chuckle instead.
Meb plunges forward. I need to hold my eager arms back; this close to his throat presents an inviting target. Yet I placate my violent urge by celebrating a small success, my taunt drawing him out.
“We have made plans Lord Hob. With or without you it matters not!”
The two Chiefs let their sighs escape before they can retrieve them. Yes, Lord Klug, you have done extremely well, theirs is a strong alliance, yet while their tribes war instead of hunt, they will need food during the snow months … and perhaps that is why I probably have until harvest before they come raiding or worse.
“All that remains is the return of the five spears I gifted you Meb and to wish you all luck.” I eye each of them, returning to Meb.
His fists clench, teeth grind and then a hand falls upon his shoulder, the Matriarch. His head nods while releasing a deep breath.
“I propose I return all fifteen spears, recover my tribute and dissolve our agreement.”
I should refuse, to protect him. There is no doubt in my mind the other three knew of his intent, probably encouraging him to make the rash move before this meeting. The supportive touch from the Matriarch calming him and bringing him back on task. I suspect his sub-tribe will be much easier to cull than any Flint Arrows and I don’t believe his two brothers are safe from the same treatment regardless of what words have been spoken to beguile them. And it is annoying to discover the unseen hand of the Matriarch in all this, does she guide us from the sidelines, or does she play all of us, as she sees fit?
“Do you others wish the return of your tributes and the sundering our arrangement?”
The Matriarch sidles up to the bench, batting her eyelids. “We know without passage through Laughing Skulls Tribal lands our part will be a challenge but whatever the future difficulty I am sure we can come to an agreeable arrangement.” Her voice purrs, a sultry plea.
I caress her cheeks with my thumbs as I cup my hands around the sides of her head. I resist the urge to crush her skull and lean in, to tease for a kiss instead. No further. Our lips don't touch. Her alluring smile confirms my loving responses have her believing I am hers to manipulate. My coy reaction allows me to cast a fleeting glance at the two chiefs. Both Chiefs reveal the same tell at the same time, their lips parting enough to view their teeth, apprehension, anticipation; they appreciate a prior promise from her, the Matriarch can control the Hob they imagine.
I stare at Meb. “What if your tribute refuses to join you?”
“Once you breathe her spirit back into her, she will come to her senses …” he retorts.
“Such as simple cure. Show me the spears and we can get this done.” A petty quip, which I regret. I need to show utmost restraint in this game of words, they need to remain certain, superior … their overconfidence is my only ally.
Meb for the first time has a bounce in his step as he leads the Chiefs and the Matriarch from the kitchen cabin. Outside he signals to his escort and two goblins carry a bundle of spears each, upon their shoulders towards him. Waiting for my exit beside the doorway are Milga and Zeb who escort me as I step out of the kitchen cabin.
“Please deliver the spears to my loyal advisors, while I fetch Ligia.”
I don’t wait for his agreement or a response, marching off to my cabin. My four new wives having gathered upon the landing during the arrival of their former tribes now linger beside a porch roof post each, grasping them in fact upon my approach.
“Ligia, we must speak.” The other three relax, slinging their bodies around their post towards her, a hug and release in turn.
Did these wives know one of them would be forfeit? How? On some level, I feel betrayed.
“Lord Hob?”
The chubbiness of her cheeks less so now, underneath the remaining fat of her arms and legs muscle definition is on display from her relentless work crafting weapons. She demonstrates her commitment every day and now I must cast her back.
“Brother Meb has cancelled our agreement. He has returned the spears and so I must return you to him …”
Tears spring from her eyes … “M … my spirit …”
I reach for her cheeks with my hands cupping them. “I will breathe your spirit back into you, here, now,” I reply, my words soothing, trying to allay her fear.
“But I am your wife, would you give me up so easily?” Her eyes reach into mine. Searching for truth. Trying to cast away the thought I would commit such a betrayal.
Keeping one palm on her cheek, my other reaches across her belly. The slight bump not entirely fat.
“You carry my child so somehow, someway I will fetch you back.” I bend down to kiss her, she steps back.
“If I am still yours, you will not return my Spirit.” A shake of her head, final.
“What if you die … while away I would not want a wife of mine to wander lost in the darkness between life and death, you must accept the return of your Spirit. I promise to fetch you back.”
Lazsia wipes a tear from an eye. Bekto tries to hide her sad green face behind a post, while Zuxa dashes back into the cabin and shortly after we hear her blubbering.
She nods. “I nod for show. They are all looking, so kiss me for show and don’t return my spirit. I am yours and will birth your child. You will be present when I do like all your other wives, like all the others you have planted your seed in. I know why Redagar builds those rooms …”
“Lazsia, fetch a bucket of water,” I shout. “You are certain of this foolish risk?” I lay her down upon the ground, tufts of grass and rich black soil become her bed.
“Husband.” Lazsia places the bucket beside me. I decide if water is present to take a spirit away, then water must be present to return a spirit as I perpetuate this hoodoo farce.
“When I pour the water over your head, I need loud coughing as if you are gasping for breath …”
She blinks her eyes and I begin to pour, I aim more generally at her eyes, which she closes and like a star performer she coughs loud and often, convulsing her body for extra effect. When the water is near spent my lips find hers. The kiss is long and thorough. As our lips part, I whisper, “Shake your body and when I offer you a hand to stand, turn and run.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, the tears blend with the water upon her face as I climb to my feet and offer a hand.
Shaking her head, she spider-craws half a body length away from me and then turns over and dashes away making a beeline directly to Meb. He wraps his arms around her and over her shoulder his triumphant smile radiates towards me.
I shout, “All who don’t belong to the Farm go, leave now!” I swivel about and escape into my cabin. Luda, Rexa and Zuxa wait for me on my bed, while Bekto and Lazsia join us closing and baring the cabin door behind them.
“Why are you happy?” asks Zuxa.
I am certain my wives are pregnant. They haven’t told me, and I don’t know why not, but Ligia is proof.
“My wives are pregnant,” I declare.
They share conspiratorial glances before Luda speaks, “This is women’s business husband, we are expected to continue with our duties until the day and then return to you with babe in arms.”
Ligia working with Redagar felling trees most likely asked about his business and uncovered the mystery reason for the additional construction, above and beyond what was required when the Copper Village forty joined the Farm, yet she kept the secret to herself, not even sharing with her sister-wives and if not with them then no-one.
“Not for my wives. I will be present when you give birth.”
They immediately try to explain to me why I shouldn’t, tradition, how I couldn’t possibly be helpful and on and on. A knock on the door rescues me as I climb off the bed to remove the crossbeam. Glancing over my shoulder, I whisper “I will be with you, that is final.”
I open the door. Instead of Milga, the Matriarch’s huntress stands before me. My brain tries to understand why she is still here, I am certain all would have left before dusk … cold metal slices through my flesh searching for my heart, wakening me in an instant. My hand wraps around hers and the dagger she holds. I reverse the thrust and break her wrist as I turn the blade back on her, sweeping across and destroying her throat. Her head lolls back, a wet thump, landing between her shoulder blades. The dead body before me collapses with a thud as I sink to my knees, black blood leaking out of and oozing down my chest from her fatal wounding of me.
Before my eyes close, I catch a glimpse of a figure darting away in the low light of dusk. Having seen her naked, I recognise her body shape. Her voluminous robes disguise the fact her breasts are disproportionately large for a goblin female, a rare anomaly. The Matriarch! Why I ask myself? Then I can think no more.