“Why are we still surveying?” asks Karo with some impatient attitude.

For a moment I consider ignoring her, but I know she will simply ask again.

“Because the village is odd, and you need to be quiet, your skills of disguise and conversation haven’t exactly been in demand so far.”

“Spies observe and intrigue …”

“Pfft! Well, observe the village. There is only one family, elderly so not difficult.” I glance at her and catch the withdrawal of her tongue. Petty. “They stoke the cooking fires in each of the cottages, yet reside in the centre one … where are the rest of the villagers?”

“Hunting and gathering …”

I am ready to slap her …

“Including the children? No this is odd for a border village. It is like keeping the village alive when empty.”

Karo smacks my arm, I think in a fit of revelation. “What if this is the same at each village? An appearance to cover a different truth. We only headed for this village because we need to find a trail to Meb’s village, most would avoid an occupied village, unless they wanted to raid it which neither of Meb’s brothers would do. So, this setup is for spies and trespassers …”

I shake my head. “What if Meb’s losses from the culling were so great his villages were decimated and this a ruse to make others believe his losses weren’t that bad … self-preservation?”

“Skirt the village, check on others, yet Meb’s village will tell us the truth …”

Now her enthusiasm springs to life. I slide back from under the brush, our incursion into Meb’s lands to date, cautious, yet truth be told none of his tribe except for the old goblin family in this village are to be seen. Skirt the villages, well pinpointed by the home fires and you could walk through Meb’s land thinking no tribe laid claim.

---

Staying undercover, we observe the main trail leading from this village. Fresh growth grass common, more you would think possible with general traffic … villagers foraging and hunting using the path for quick passage to their favourite places at least.

“Time to take a risk … you lead off, unarmed and flowers around your neck, you should confuse and appearing harmless, questioned before stabbed …”

Karo glances at me. “What about just sneaking about as we should?”

I rest my hands on the hilts of my knives. “Because I don’t think we will meet anyone and this way we will find Meb sooner rather than later …”

“And if you are wrong?”

I smile and chuckle. “Being the superior spy you are, you should be able to talk your way out or possibly talk your way in?”

She puffs up her chest, my hollow praise … effective. Good to know.

“You will be close behind?” she asks.

“I am your bodyguard,” I declare, eye to eye.

---

We skirt two villages, both appearing occupied and yet not, again an old goblin family caretake the illusion. This village before us though, busy, overflowing with goblins, more than the wooden log wall surrounding the village proper can contain. If not all, then most of Meb’s people are here and preparing …

The numbers reduce, all are moving along a trail heading South I realise; we are at the tail of a great thin procession. The walled village empties as well, except for a caretaker family like all the others.

“We must scout around and find a position to observe the entire leaving parade and determine once and for all how many survive of Meb’s tribe,” I say.

“Shouldn’t we acquire some clothing from the locals first? You know, just in case we want to blend in and, well spy?” Karo quirks a smart-arse eyebrow.

---

“Stop complaining …” I try to hold back a smirk, but Karo the drowned looking rat is too funny …

“You didn’t slip in the river … I could have been swept away …” She flicks water at me, and I resist turning around.

“At least we knew what we thought was a ford across the river wasn’t after your slip, the depth low yet the river narrow and the flow strong. No way would an entire tribe try to cross, which led us, to here …” I throw my hands wide towards the section of river before us.

“Cold comfort,” she snipes.

“I did throw you my dry peasant clothes, otherwise your teeth would still be chattering.” I glance behind and Karo finishes making do, tying a cloth belt at the waist, around a full-length shirt type robe thing.

She crawls following behind me, and we are in our ‘hide’, with some additional branches two fallen trees beside the riverbank provide us with the ideal cover. The position provides a perfect line of sight to observe the impending river crossing by Meb’s entire tribe. A total relocation, unheard of in this valley.

“Will they try to cross under fading daylight or wait for morning?” Karo asks.

“I would try to cross … what would happen if an opposing force moved into position under the cover of night?”

“Pfft? What opposing force?” she scoffs.

“Listen.”

Her mouth drops open, while her hand points to the South.

During Karo’s clothing change the steady marching of many boots has been growing louder, like a subtle hum as the boots are soft leather yet they trespass through the forest beside the river. The land I would think Meb thought his.

I tap Karo on her shoulder and point and keep pointing until she realises. I listen while she gathers in her drying clothes. Unseen from the opposite riverbank, yet with another force approaching, they would send out scouts and if we believe this hide perfect, others would as well. The drying clothes would give our position away in an instant.

A goblin who I believe due to size, is Meb, fords the river in the company of several bodyguards and villagers, the hide is on a gentle curve of the river permitting observation of the entire crossing. They begin to make a camp on this side of the river while the rest of his tribe remains on the other side, lining the riverbank … waiting?

A branch or twig snaps behind me, a fair distance away …

“Some scout you make!” The male voice mocking.

“Who is here to hear anyway, when important I am silent …” the retort.

“Young ones, every step should be silent. You need to embed stealth deep in your bones!”

“Even when rutting? Oh, I forgot you’re too old now!”

Straining my hearing as much as I can there is a long silence.

“Continue along the river, I will scout further away from the river …”

Then he issues an order as if the insult of the young hunter never happened. What is special about the youth? I tap Karo and point down and she nods. I shuffle underneath one of the trunks trying to sneak closer to the forest proper and freeze as a boot scuffs against bark directly above me.

The scuffing continues …

“Mud, I hate mud …” he mutters.

Mud and twig debris falls either side of the trunk, revealing the youths exact position. I swerve around the trunk and pop up slightly behind, landward side, believing he would be scanning the river after stealthing through so much forest. Wrong!

I pull one of the feet towards me. The surprise on his face continuing as his body smashes down onto the trunk. His eyes bulge then he leans forward, holding for a moment until falling to the ground with a thump landing on his back, hands between his legs.

My spear point rests upon his neck. “Who are you?”

His head shakes.

“I could smash them to paste?” I offer.

The corners of his mouth drop, while his moist eyes check his loin region …

“Well?”

He swallows and replies in a high voice, “W … what do you want to know?”

My smile predatory. “Your life story …”

“I am nobody, a young hunter looking for glory, my father was slain by a beast in the last hunt on the plains leaving me to protect my mother from further breeding …”

I shake my head and lean upon my spear, drawing a trickle of blood. “You are worthless then, best I slay …”

“No!” he croaks. “I see now, you have another, you’re a kidnapper.” He slaps his head. “Your armour of stiff leather and long flint knives, why didn’t I realise …”

Karo in the disguise of a Laughing Skull leads him false, yet identifying me due to my armour means there is now general knowledge of kidnappers within his tribe if a youth like him knows … I am suspicious.

“How do you know of my armour?” I draw a trickle of blood from his throat.

“My mother …” Then he closes his mouth. Silence yet the green flush of his face hints at another secret.

His armour is a double layer of uncommon animal hide, cut and stitched meticulously. His bow crafted from bone. If my armour hints at who I am, his armour and weapon, do the same for him and I decide to act on a hunch.

“Tonight, we will visit your mother and see if she values your life.”

“I will be missed by then and a hundred hunters will be searching for me …”

I smile, while he gulps … I win.

---

We suggest her strip out of his armour; he declines.

“To carry would be a burden and you would eventually discard it. You have my bow and if you leave me in my armour, I will promise to be more cooperative.”

I share a look with Karo. “Agreed.”

The armour suggests he belongs to one of the tribes bordering the great plain, a tossup between Sharp Fangs and Grim Weavers. Given his mentor left him to patrol along the river, Karo and I with our new friend in tow circle wide to the East along the bank of the river to wash our tracks and then wide to the South of the impromptu tribal gathering on the Southern bank of the river.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Dusk is upon the camp and there doesn’t seem to be any disturbance or urgency, except for the lighting of torches and the searing of a boar over a spit. There is to be a feast, yet the hunters aren’t moving towards the prize, instead, a limping goblin makes the rounds gifting them a jar each. They sip and smile, then sip and smile some more.

I check the prisoner’s bindings, especially his gag, which keeps his mouth full of leather scraps, then throw a leather loop around his neck and throw the end to Karo.

“Two hands on the lead at all times. Any sign of trouble hiss at me and I will skewer him.”

His eyes open wide while shaking his head. Brave to the end …

---

I did intend to distract any guard with a thrown stone or perhaps Karo rustling a bush, in the end, our first choice fixates upon the spit, wiping his slobbering lips several times on the back of his hand. A swift slice of the throat and a gentle lowering to the ground, the only effort to deliver a quick death. I take time laying him out, propping his head and arms, with his weapons beside him as if in sleep, conveniently under a nearby bush with a boot or two poking out.

Karo and our prisoner then wait there while I continue scouting.

There is a second ring of guards or was. Most have little jars, which the limping goblin rushes to refill from a waterskin upon hearing a yell. I wave an arm across a torch and then duck down. Karo catches up in good time our young hunter trailing behind her minding his steps, silent. He seems too obliging, does his promise hold him … I shake the feeling off. Pointing to the huge tent of animal hide in the centre, I let Karo know of my next destination. There are several sections in deep shadow, the torches unable to cast firelight everywhere. Perfect.

Karo tightens the noose around his neck until his eyes bulge and then loosens off the noose to allow light breathing. Turning, I make quick dashes from several trees and/or bushes until I reach the tent. I listen out, waiting for Karo and the young hunter to join me. Ideally, a moment is all I need when the leader within is alone, ideally preparing for sleep. Considering the boar, I expect the feast to last most of the night, a point which Karo raised, why not wait for dawn? My reply, I would rather be escaping under the cover of dawn than sneaking in and trying to escape under a rising sun.

---

Our captive, most likely from dehydration succumbs to sleep easily. The sound of a tent flap being drawn back brings my hearing back to the tent. I tap Karo on the shoulder and wave my hand about, back in the direction we snuck in to ensure she is on watch, guarding our backs.

“Welcome, Meb and congratulations are in order. I didn’t think any could move your entire tribe and yet the proof lies across the river!” says a joyous female voice.

“We are not done yet. I need to make up some warrior numbers and unfortunately, the Blood Suns fought to the death instead of surrendering. I had hoped the promise of living back on their own lands would rally some to me …”

There is some shuffling, I expect along with the silence they make themselves comfortable upon furs and the like.

“What of the mountain villages, they are the more civilised … the three tribes fought the berserks to allow you first offer?”

A pause. I sense failure.

“My hunters too keen for revenge after so many years … after the first couple of villages the rest were found to be abandoned and we didn’t plunder all we could, destruction the priority and I couldn’t be everywhere to command them otherwise.”

Her voice keen, supportive, she replies, “You did succeed some with both of those objectives though?”

“Yes, until the slaying of OuzOuz and then every hunter wanted the glory for tracking down his killer and the tale grew from the truth to the more outlandish as the days went by until finally, the fervour died out. So many lost days though …”

I note the sadness in his voice. He definitely works towards a plan, one to benefit his tribe it seems more than himself. Having met one of his brothers and learnt something of his other Meb deserves to be Chief. I wonder if there ever was another way.

“In honour of our alliance, I have some captives I wish to gift you …”

“What? You would do this? Why?”

The last word being drawn out; I detect the undertone of suspicion.

She chortles. “My ego thought my people would celebrate our victory and to demonstrate our greatness I ordered the Blood Suns captives to be paraded. Seeing them bound, tired, and defeated my people didn’t appreciate the spectacle. Many of my advisors counselled me to find a noble way to expel them from our tribal lands. They follow a number of days behind us as I couldn’t wait for them and meet with you on time.”

“You didn’t consider integrating them into your tribe?”

“Initially, but I misjudged. I am Matriarch while I can sense the mood on the wind and Grim Weavers are Grim Weavers and will not accept ‘others’ no matter any possible advantage. The captives are a useful bunch, two whole villages worth with useful craftsmen and the like, I am jealous of your fortune and curse the short-sightedness of my tribe.”

Would Lord Hob praise and honour me if I could liberate two villages worth of Blood Suns and lead them to the Farm? I try to scheme the how and nothing I can think of now will allow such a feat.

“Did you manage to slay him?” asks Meb.

I hear shifting about and a cup settling upon a table perhaps …

“He fell, my huntress though …” I overhear a deep intake of breath. “He grabbed her knife still in her hand from his chest and cut her head off in his death throw …”

“Cut her head off!” Meb’s voice rises after each spoken word. “Was there a funeral pyre?”

Silence, yet she must be denying the fact. As Lord Hob survived.

“We did watch the Farm for seven days and none sighted him or a pyre. His second in command took over and everything continued, although there is a faction, which we could possibly exploit if he does rise from the dead.”

“If the Sharp Fangs take up the offer, they will be his neighbours and not I and for that I am satisfied. I prefer the Hobs I know, he has too much control over his actions … while I admire your skills Matriarch to turn the heads of goblins, I deliberately placed myself within his reach … he didn’t crush my throat and jump the bench to slay the rest of us, yet the veins in his neck throbbed …”

“Pfft! His neck throbbed because I sparked the lust within him, nothing else.”

Again silence.

“Aw, your right of course.” A plate or cup sets down upon a table. “I return across the river to my people …”

Laughter. “Aren’t you forgetting something, or in this case someone?”

“No.”

The silence drags on and then a tinkle sounds out. The flaps of the tent open with a swish and then slap close.

“No, you haven’t forgotten or no, you want to forget … about our deal? And I have sweetened the deal with those nice villagers, surely one girl can’t mean that much to you?”

What girl? What deal? Tell me more scheming pair, I curse.

The tent flaps swish again.

“Follow him, bring back the girl or don’t come back.” Her venomous voice a complete contrast to her ‘meeting voice’.

Once again, the tent flaps swish.

Karo stares at me, her lips move and yet like me, we must remain in dark silence while our minds spin and want to compare recollections.

---

A torch sputters out, soon after, another, those responsible for the upkeep now joining their hunter brothers in sleep or drunken stupor. My eyelids are heavy, and I think of nothing better than to lay down, rest my head. Karo snuggles close to our prisoner, body warmth attracts.

“What took so long!”

The growl in the Matriarch’s voice clears away any thoughts of sleep.

“Matriarch he delayed, telling stories, offering alternatives …”

Several moments of silence and then shuffling.

“He really wanted to keep you, prepared to throw everything away … amazing and yet you must feel special my dear …”

“I am not your dear and he promised to fetch me …”

The Matriarch replies, a harsh pity in her voice, “He has sold you, my dear, you are now mine for another purpose …” A snap of her fingers. “Take her and stand guard over her with the others … also where is my son, he should have honoured his mother by now before feasting … find him!”

“Yes, Matriarch.”

I observe our sleeping prisoner … the deference the older hunter displayed, the well-made armour and weapons, you could be her son. How does that fit though with the Grandfather tale? Unless the Matriarch is the female beneficiary and the next Grandfather begat her “son”, which may not then be from her loins?

Easing my way around the tent, I hang back slightly as the torchlight the escort carries, illuminates their destination and if I follow too close, me. Another tent. The two guards enter with her and shortly after exit without her. Head nodding and one stays while the other hurries away, I assume searching and where necessary kicking bodies trying to rouse them. A son needs to be found and probably more guards are required for the tent …

Exposing myself to the minimum of available torch firelight, I step carefully to the rear of the prisoner tent avoiding two sleeping goblins in the process. My fingertips wipe against the leather of the tent, slight give, feels heavy … my blade next and the sharp flint edge delivers a shallow slice … what beast produces such a hide? A plains herd beast of course, not boar hide. I slide along feeling for the wooden stay – the hide is continuous. The next wooden stay wavers and flickers under torch firelight, yet smooth as well and the guard stops his pacing.

My eyes scan up and his smile is wide as he draws down his spear point. The spear tip waves before my eyes, come hither …

I could run, but then he will call out whoever is still capable, the pursuit would begin slow and few and then build into a frenzy. What of Karo and our prisoner? Rising out of the half-dark with my hands above my head, I determine surrender is the only option …

Schick. Gurgle.

Black blood paints his smile, while hands fumble for the arrow through his throat, his spear forgotten. Eyes wide he drops to his knees and then falls flat on his face. An enemy of my foe is my friend? I could peer into the dark, wonder, scratch my head or simply proceed. I proceed. I need to prepare myself, the tent flap is under full torchlight, visible from much of the camp I suspect, and the guard sent away looking for others could return at any moment. I dash from semi-dark to open light and swallow, my back to the camp, my hands working at the middle knot feverishly.

I untie the first knot, the middle one. Two above and two below to go.

“Come back to the dark brave fool,” a feminine voice, whispers.

My head jerks in the direction of the voice. One moment of thought and I dash back to the safety of a cloak of darkness, a gift of the night.

She runs the blade of the knife against the hide and the impossible happens. After several repeat strokes, the impervious leather parts. A small glow of firelight escapes from within and she steps through. A low rustling and scrapping the only noise.

“Ligia?” she whispers.

“Did he send you?”

“Fate sent me, it’s not every day or night the smell of a spit carries on the breeze … do you wish freedom or to wait for Lord Hob?”

There is a ripple of acknowledgement, my eyes adjust, and several others are held prisoner within the tent as well.

Ligia holds her bound wrists up, I recognise the leather throngs … the knife saws through and she is free. Others hold their wrists up. Ligia’s rescuer pauses and then repeats to free them as well.

“Quiet, obviously. Follow,” she says. There is an undisputed authority to her voice, and I almost obey without question until I come to my senses, certain my position is the rear guard and wait.

“Wait,” I say.

Her head swivels towards me, the escapees stop moving.

“I need to collect a companion and a prisoner.”

“Do so,” her voice whispers. “There is an abandoned village Southeast of here, follow the trail, you need to catch up to us before we leave it.”

She turns away and is gone. Ligia passes me by, in the middle of the escaping line and I touch her shoulder. Her head snaps around.

“Who?”

She shakes her head a smile upon her lips yet doesn’t vocalise her laughter as she also disappears through the opening in the tent.

On the heels of the last through, in a dashing crouch, I quickly work my way back to Karo. She and our prisoner are still asleep, I shake Karo's shoulder while poising my hand over her mouth. To her credit, she opens her eyes first instead of her mouth.

“We must go,” I whisper.

Her head nods towards our prisoner. I shake my head. Freeing prisoners will anger the Matriarch, kidnapping her son will earn her wroth.

“Who is he?” whispers a voice from behind me.

I don’t jump because Karo’s eyes gave away the new arrival.

I lean towards her ear. “The Matriarch’s son.” Then point with my hand at the tent.

She kneels and scoops her arms under the sleeping body and tests his weight. A silent heave and she flips the body over her shoulder and pushes to standing using a straight back and her thigh muscles, then walks off into the night. Karo and I stand back in wonder and then realise we are being left behind. The low light from the camp guides us until we catch up. The Blood black of the night blinds us until a dancing light appears in the distance. Body over her shoulder she marches towards the glimmer and then the light goes out and yet she continues.

Another light shines … and after a time goes out. The light from the camp is now non-existent and we walk on blind trusting in the path beneath our feet staying true.

The light shines once more, and we discover the owner. Ligia.

Our prisoner’s body is hoisted off to two others and under the torch firelight I recognise her and yet I blink in disbelief.

Before we set off our self-appointed leader collects several branches from the Western side of the trail, several waterskins and backpacks she must have hoarded earlier, while everyone waits in silence. Under torch firelight, she looks tall, and her strength already proven of course. Her humour, dour, as she silently hands out the waterskins and backpacks without explanation. Led by a torch we continue upon the dirt-packed trail towards the abandoned village, the light padding of boots and shoes our only sound. One of the rescued did attempt to ask a question and our leader wrapped both of her hands around the questioner’s throat. Not quite as impressive as Lord Hob, yet the shock factor alone enough to silence the target and dissuade others. This act intimidated the two males in our new group as well, her height over both probably contributing. Was she taller? To be certain of her height advantage the three would need to line up back-to-back … yep, well I will never learn that truth.

As the false dawn rises from the East our leader halts and directs everyone into the Eastern Forest. She hands one of her pet branches to me.

“Sweep away the tracks from where we turn into the Forest, I will backtrack and leave a false trail to the West. Ligia, lead them further into the forest eight or nine lingering in one spot can’t be swept away.”

“Yes, sister-wife.”

That reply raises some eyebrows and opens mouths to ask questions which never find voice, at least for now.

---

“Where did you leave your branch?” she asks upon return.

Not the question I envisage of course expecting sharing about our position and a possible plan … I point to a high bush of the same type as the branch. She nods and adds hers.

His groan draws attention. The Matriarch’s son, his eyes wide while his struggling is futile. She kicks him and when he grunts in protest, she kicks him again. He stops and thinks, and she turns away to address the group.

She points at the Matriarch’s son. “He will ensure the Matriarch is furious and determined to track us down and make us pay.” Gibbering starts. “He has been taken, returning him, or leaving him now won’t save us. Returning to Lord Hob’s Farm will.”

One of the males raises his hand. I almost burst out laughing.

“We are going the wrong way. We head towards Grim Weavers lands …?”

“Yes, I am hopeful the Matriarch doesn’t consider this direction obvious for kidnappers, considering they always head for the pass once they have their captives. But we can’t depend upon that of course. So, we go East for a day and then North, over the river and if Meb and his tribe are heading South then his lands should be near empty. With some caution, we should be able to return to Lord Hob’s Farm.”

“Two things,” I say. “The Matriarch talked about some deal with the Sharp Fangs, who would adopt Meb’s lands, I am not sure when. The second, there is a tribute of over seventy or eighty villagers being delivered by the Matriarch to Meb from the East. They were too slow, so she left them with a guard and went ahead to make sure she met with Meb on time.”

The former prisoners crowd forward.

“We must free them!”

“Tell us what to do to help!”