---Gurg, Vender of Stone Corner POV
“Father, why must we hide from goblins?”
My son, my innocent son, tall and robust, yet not an adult. He doesn’t need to learn this lesson personally.
“They are mercenaries, killers, who long ago lost any feeling for other goblins, holding none for hobgoblins, either. Now go join your mother and guard our hidden stock.”
“Shouldn’t we display all our goods?”
“They know what they what, and every vendor here knows what they what. An unnecessary display of other goods would cause them, erm, confusion.” I grab his shoulders, point his body toward his mother, and gently shove. With slow steps, and an occasional glance over his shoulder, my son eventually disappears, and I hope to stay by his mother’s side.
A modest dust cloud approaches the marketplace over low dry grassland. The grassland borders the extreme edges of the great plains, where long grass and enormous beasts roam. They migrate North to South or South to North depending upon their needs. Several large troughs of water surround the market in the hope some riders will stay out of the marketplace. Each troop has a master of coin, and they usually barter with the vendors to keep the troop’s mounts from invading.
I clasp one hand in the other as three riders approach my stall. None dismount. Their mounts snarl, and great dollops of drool drip from their jaws to splat on the stone of the open-air market plaza. I hear them chuckle at my expense, of course, yet one of these wolves they ride could bite my head off.
“Steel weapons?”
A long scar runs across one cheek, splitting his top lip at one end, a torn half ear at the other to highlight his hard, grim eyes. Not the master of coin then; he is the troop leader.
“You are the Leader of the First Troop, I see,” I say with as much bravery as I can muster. His leather armour carries their sign, a carving of fangs resting on crossed spears. However, the third has a carving of a claw that looks like fangs. Did the fourth troop disband or suffer disastrous defeat?
“Steel weapons? Do you have any for sale? All I see here are copper and iron weapons. A sparse collection at that, as if some goods are missing.”
“It is…”
The second falls silent after suffering the troop leader’s withering glance.
The master of coin then, good at numbers and bartering, but also too accepting of what he sees.
“Well, times have been tough. Copper is easier to work while finding and smelting iron is a rare skill and steel more so again.”
“What is your knife made of?” He leans forward in his saddle. “Unsheathe the weapon.” His beast’s head waggles at me while opening a slobbering mouth full of sharp teeth, including long canines.
I can’t. I forgot to exchange it for the iron knife I saved for this occasion. My hand wraps around the handle, and I look up. An iron spear point courtesy of the third waves about in my face. A drop of saliva from the troop leader’s beast splashes on my countertop. Revealing the knife means several things. These goblin riders will know someone nearby makes steel weapons, if not in Stone Corner. Given my lapse, they will expel me from Stone Corner to wander the valley in search of a safe place to vendor my goods. This lapse means my family will live in constant fear.
There is no good delaying the inevitable.
“Sud Guts Ripper, for what reason do you grace us with your presence?” asks a deep, gravel-like feminine voice over my left shoulder. Left shoulder… means… the steps. She is from the plateau, a Stone Blood descendent. Why? The goblin mercenaries have visited before and not drawn a pure Stone Blood from their lofty perch. I slide my knife slowly back into its sheath as all three goblins and their beasts now gaze over my left shoulder.
“How much will you sell your steel armour for?” he hisses.
“Not my sword or knife?” I can almost hear the delight in her words, yet her deep voice blurs the delivery. His lips curl up, the deep green of the healed scar removing any friendly intent. I take what I can. A pretend smile is better than him threatening anew. My boots shuffle sideways, and at a hand’s width at a time, I edge my way clear of these two opposing forces, heading towards the far-right end of my table.
“Even pregnant, you can wield a sword or knife, armour, though, not so much.”
“I am not pregnant,” she replies. Why do I sense she misses Sud’s slight?
He reaches for his loins. “One bedding by me will correct your situation, I am certain.” His companions leer. Sweat breaks out on my brow.
“Your goblin appendage wouldn’t be able to satisfy the sexual needs of a hobgoblin such as me, but I thank you for your tiny offer. This revelation still doesn’t change the fact Stone Corner doesn’t sell steel weapons.”
He spits off to one side while my heart leaps in my chest as the far-right of my table looms nearer.
“Doesn’t sell steel weapons and armour to goblins, you mean!” he snarls.
“Now calm, please. Otherwise, I will have you tossed out of the market or exiled from Stone Corner. Then you will have no opportunity to receive a message we have received for you.”
The three exchange looks of hope. Hope? His face softens somewhat as a fake smile not dominated by his scar decorates his lips.
“A message?”
“I thought you might be pleased.”
She waits. She is taunting them.
“What did the message say?” His smile slips for a heartbeat, but after a brief struggle, it returns.
“Are you certain your companions and a humble hobgoblin vendor can hear such an important message?”
“Yes!” His reply is immediate, which must mean something. Is this pre-arranged?
“An odd message, one word, return. I am certain this means….”
The three spur their mounts about and race back to the rest of their troop.
“Return to where I wonder,” I voice without realising.
“Their females, we believe. You have served them for as long as anyone here. No females fight with them or travel with them.”
“Thank you, erm….” My eyes find hers, even though I am on the verge of an accident. Steel shoulders, steel vambraces and greaves gleam. Polished, hardened black leather armour contours her athletic body perfectly. Before me stands a heroic giant of a female hobgoblin, or so she seems.
“Like all first daughters, I adopt our founder’s and my ancestor’s blessed name, Milga Stone Blood. Some comment I have inherited her sense of humour, but I leave such frivolous comparisons to others.”
Milga Stone Blood was a goblin, which this current female hobgoblin ancestor beside me seems to brush over. Also, if the one and only statue of the founder of Stone Corner is to be believed, she was an archer dressed in hunter’s soft leather, without a single piece of steel armour on her.
She whistles and waits. A troop of ten wolf-mounted goblin hunters and huntresses gallop by—every rider a statue lookalike, armour, weapons, and facial resemblance. I glance sideways at my guest, humble in my ignorance. Only where have they been hiding such elites?
“Not all Stone Bloods are hobgoblin, and those who are goblin honour our ancestor, for there is a prophecy that once again one shall establish a profound true hobgoblin partnership.”
I swallow. “You don’t believe the rumours Krilzak Quickeyed and his thieving merchants spread, do you?”
Her broad smile fully reveals her long, sharp tusks, white, perfect, with graceful curves… my loins stir. “It is written that Lord Farmer Hob was different, beyond hobgoblin. Krilzak Quickeyed complains about his liege Torngul Heartsplitter like he always has, but recently he mentioned another, Lord Klar. Not a Lord of his valley, he assures everyone, yet trusted by his Lord and young. That, of course, could be unusual but not something to be investigated.”
“You mean… you mean you believe Krilzak’s incredible story about this hobgoblin youth being able to seed an entire clan of hobgoblins?”
She pivots, and both of her heavy leather gauntlets thump down on my shoulders. My eyes need to look up, and my loins shrivel as her tusks dominate my attention. “Lord Farmer Hob was a farmer of grain and planter of his seed. Lord Klar may or may not be the same, but I mean to find out the truth.”
I don’t move or think until she takes the first step of the endless staircase. They say it takes a good part of a morning to climb to the top of the plateau, something I will never know for sure. I curse my Stone Blood father under my breath for laying with a common no-name stray, my mother and condemning me to eke out a life at the feet of the plateau instead of living the life of a full ancestor on the roof of the plateau.
I wave towards our flimsy accommodation. I know my hidden wife and son look out for my signal. Shortly after, they push a small loaded cart out of our family tent while I wait. There isn’t any rush. The mercenary goblins’ arrival tends to destroy any same-day trade. As I cast my eyes out towards the plain, I wonder. How many who remember Lord Klug have also listened to Krilzak’s complaints about his liege but, for their purposes, are trying to determine the nature of his liege’s companion? How many powerful hobgoblins or goblins, like Milga Stone Blood, will send minions to investigate? Would this Lord Torngul’s valley welcome a humble merchant selling steel weapons, or would the reception be more violent, taking what I have over my dead body? I survey Stone Corner and decide on safety first. After all, we do not trade steel weapons and armour to Krilzak and other merchants. We only sell Stone Corner steel to skilled trustworthy hobgoblins, no exceptions.
“Gurg?”
I swivel about, and three familiar faces receive my groaning welcome. These are the get-rich-quick trio, all half Stone Blood like me. Traders like me.
“Don’t be like that, Gurg,” says Zogor, while Sawmok and Vorgvo chuckle in support.
Arguing won’t dissuade them, so the easiest path is to listen to their offer, pretend to consider the merits and then reject the day after.
“What do you have for me this time?”
“Ten Stone Blood Steel arrowheads and five Stone Blood Steel spearheads!” says an excitable Vorgvo.
“We are sending our sons with them, following in the wake of the Stone Blood Riders. They will clear the way, and if certain steel weapons end up elsewhere, they could have dropped them in battle.” Zogor’s eyes open wide, head bobbing fiercely, trying to encourage my agreement.
“And the best part, we will pretend to make sales of the goods in Stone Corner in the next few weeks, covering our tracks.” Sawmok’s hands try to grab for air in celebration of their cleverness.
I cover my face with my hands, and when I remove them, they are still there.
“What if your sons are robbed? Either on the way with the steel weapons or returning with their load of gold?” I ask.
Their three broad, confident smiles have me wondering. But knowing these three, the wait for the answer will be forthcoming in less than a heartbeat.
“We have dipped the steel weapons in copper!” Vorgvo announces in triumph.
They must read the doubt on my face as Zogor pulls out a sample from somewhere I don’t want to know.
The piece isn’t what I imagined. No bright all-over copper coverage, more of a scattering, taking the gloss off the steel with flecks of copper here and there. A poor treatment, although if only permitted a glance inspection, buyers wouldn’t know what they were purchasing. Will that be good enough? What if their son’s lives depended on this ruse?
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“They would be amongst several other copper and bronze arrows and spearheads, and if questioned, our sons will claim they are failures of some type, hinting that they could sell them for a discount. No warrior would trust his life to such uncertainty, and no robber would either.” Sawmok rocks back on his heels, his chest swelling.
“Mmm,” I manage in response. “What about the pile of gold they will need to keep hidden when returning?”
“Gems!” exclaims Zogor. “When they have enough coin, they purchase gems. We are certain that the true Stone Bloods will purchase gems to set into rings and the like. What better way to add to their silver crafting?”
“Where do they hide the gems?”
The three traders glance about and then tap the side of their noses. “Our secret for now. I am sure you will understand,” replies Zogor.
My wife and son arrive, and I dip my hand into two boxes, one after the other, and hand over my contribution to their mad scheme. My wife opens her mouth and then shakes her head, striding away, dragging my son with her. She doesn’t want to witness my folly, given what I have said about these three. I risk goods, but as my too young son disappears with his mother among the other stalls, I won’t risk him. The eager three who laugh and joke before me, welcoming me to their foolproof scheme, have more to lose in this folly than they realise.
---Nudia and Koria Keen Eye POV
“Do your loins have him under control, young one?” asks the crone.
“Don’t answer yes,” advises Koria. With a great deal of effort, I don’t roll my eyes or otherwise reveal the stupidity of her advice.
“Sorry,” she replies. I need to conceal my surprise.
“At certain times, I believe so, and then at other times, less so.” I look up at the crone. She is riding in an unusual new carriage, a chair with long poles on either side. “I believe he has too much choice.”
“We could arrange for one or more of his wives to have an unfortunate accident.”
I causally shake my head. “He has distractions beyond his wives, and unfortunately, he doesn’t have any repulsive perversions, which would cause others to pause, that I could offer myself for.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Who is our best cook? Not one who prepares the same thing well, time and time again, but the one who experiments and, given she does, will occasionally turn out non-edible food but more often serve a dish beyond special?”
“Food?” There is a pause, and then she cackles until she coughs.
“I reason he can take goblin or hobgoblin partners whenever he likes. He must eat, which so far has been functional, to live. Now he is about to build his clan manor and fortification. Perhaps quality food and brewing will interest him, whereas before, he didn’t have the time or inclination. What would this cost us to try?”
We pause at the ford, and she leans over and pats my shoulder. “What will it cost us? Nothing really, and if he chokes to death on the tasty food or simply makes him fat, both outcomes work to our advantage.” She straightens, and her thoughts drift off for a moment. “We could also add poison easily.”
My hearing plucks the words from her lips with ease. I am sure she meant to keep those last words to herself, a thinking whisper. Then there is Lord Klar. While the crone isn’t aware, both Koria and I know Lord Klar waits within listening range. The request for food is a joke in truth, but as he said, why not if the tribe can provide it? I may have to tell him about the possibility of poisoning, though.
She licks her fingers. Lord Klar’s bleeding palm makes sense. His patting my shoulders makes sense. While I shouldn’t be able to, my eyes penetrate the dark of night and observe her eyes roll back, and her body stiffens under her heavy robes. She savours the taste of his blood. The silence drags on, and her four chair bearers share a nervous glance with me, and when I offer no reassurance, they fix their eyes on the prostrate elder. She is in danger of sliding out of her chair, and as a precaution, they lower the chair.
The elder’s salacious moan causes the four male chair bearers to turn away in embarrassment.
“He must have added his seed to the blood,” I share with Koria to resolve the confusion dominating our union.
“His seed does this?”
“I suspect, only to the crone. Her taste can detect a blood’s lineage by natural or supernatural means. I don’t know which. When Lord Klar seeded my tribe, we needed to drag the elder away using force. He is mischievous.”
“Perhaps he is, but I think he has a plan. If you were as old as her, denied the usual means of sexual gratification, and you discovered another way, would you take it?”
I swallow. Is that Lord Klar’s intent? Get her addicted to his seed? I sniff my shoulder. My head fills with the aroma of his seed. I am confident there is blood in the mix, but I suspect only enough for the colour to pass casual inspection. The crone’s nose would be equal to mine or better. She knew what tasty treat awaited her, and she still did! Dipping a piece of cloth in the river, I wring out the water and then mop up the leftovers on my shoulder. Like magic, her mouth opens after waving the damp cloth under her nose. I stuff the cloth into her mouth, and she sucks on the wet mix without delay.
“What if she remembers or worse accuses you of, well, I don’t know, something?”
I mentally chuckle. “I will say it was the only thing I could think of to make her drink, thinking her thirsty. The next time will be water.”
There are two next times; she awakens when I dip the cloth for a third. Her rapid breathing prevents her from speaking, or perhaps embarrassment? Are the elderly easily embarrassed?
“Raise the elder. We will cross the ford and return to the tribe as I believe we all need our rest tonight,” I say.
The four chair bearers snap to the task and, to a certain extent, throw caution to the wind as they hurry across the ford and enter the tent village of the tribe. Shortly after weaving between an assortment of tents, we stop before the biggest. A couple of female goblins in robes wait at the entrance. By this time, the elder can step out of her chair, and her two waiting apprentices guide the frail goblin into her tent proper. The four chair bearers disappear in an instant, and I am alone.
“What now?” asks Koria Keen Eye.
“You know, most goblins revere you as a legend. I don’t understand why you aren’t more, well, to put it plainly, in charge?”
“We have an agreement, don’t we? But I know what you are asking. You have heard my story. Does my reality live up to my legend?”
I consider my reply. Words have power. “You need to forgive yourself. No one has defeated Rexa. My tribe has been working towards her defeat for generations, and none are certain we will succeed. But we must try. You tried in your way, and as the only person there living every moment of every day, only your judgement counts. But regardless, you must forgive yourself because, unlike most, you have another chance. I can only hope my flesh is up to the task.”
“It is. With Lord Klar’s seed even more so.”
By this time, I find my tent and crawl inside.
“We will keep shifts. I will stay awake first If you don’t object, with the last of Lord Klar’s seed, I will improve your body’s sense of smell as I believe sight and hearing are superb,” says Koria.
I thought we would both fall asleep, yet sharing control is a natural extension of our body sharing. The body will be at rest, but it seems both of us can use the senses. “As long as we devote Lord Klar’s next seed to taste. I want to see if I can detect lineage within the blood.”
“Agreed.”
---Gorgrin, Blood Oath Follower POV
At Izga’s urging, we spend several days in the forest, by my reckoning Lord Klar’s forest. Indeed, my father’s hunters no longer stalk us. The exact reason eludes me, of course, but Izga wounding them, hunting outside of their Clan lands, and the need to hunt for food for their clan are three good reasons to give up on shadowing female hobgoblins the Clan Head doesn’t want.
The females ply their existing trades, crafting bows and arrows and hardening the arrow tips in a fire. Izga explains spears are simply bigger arrows, and while failures occur, a pile of stout spears grows beside the bows and arrows. Izga sends me out trapping. I think for the food value, but the females descend on the carcass for sinew and gluing compounds to finish the bows.
Izga insists every female, from the youngest who can walk to the oldest who can walk, must contribute. After some questions, she sorts them into roles, and we continue our march. We also suffer several desertions. Izga tells me she expects this and declares that it is better now than later when we need to depend on them.
Mid-morning, we clear the forest and spy a rise in the distance. Goblins infest the site.
“How did you know where Lord Klar would establish his manor house?” I ask, inspecting Izga from head to toe.
“Me, scout. You big lug in charge.” She darts to one side to avoid my playful swat and then skips away down the line. Izga also insisted the families march in line, youngest to oldest, with the single females at the end to shepherd any strays back into line. It occurs to me she gives a lot of orders for someone who isn’t in charge.
As the four lines of females exit the forest, excitement grips them, and they rush forward onto the grass plain. I begin a count. I recognise some faces and need to swallow to resist the urge to call them out. Several families are feral, where there should be none. These are Clan Beastbane families who lost their male provider and, instead of begging for food or finding another male, opted to live in the forest and make do. How they heard of Lord Klar’s migration is anyone’s guess. Then I am confident I spy a Clan Ironmonger family amongst the many, who dress in cloth, not skins and furs. I look about in semi-panic searching for Izga and don’t find her. What I do see are several more Ironmonger families, though. I drop to my haunches and try to think. Clan Ironmonger claims the hills and mountains beyond the forests and shares a border with Clan Beastbane. A rumour could have quickly spread. The big question is whether these families ran away or their Clan Head’s urged them to leave. I am also sure some of the Clan Beastbane families are not solely those nominated by my father. There will be consequences, I am sure. As the lines finish exiting the forest, several of the single females are skinny creatures, which immediately remind me of clan Hungry hobgoblins. How can that be? They would have had to wait in the forest, ambush-like, to join the line. Why didn’t any other females alert me?
My eyes scan the four lines of female hobgoblins, now my Lord’s subjects, and I am confident they number over three hundred. As I contemplate that number, the forest comes alive around me. Yelps of joy break out right and left of me. Ones and twos; and at times, more sprint to add themselves to the existing lines. My jaw drops. Then I jump as a hand slaps my back.
“Found some strays. You like?”
Izga.
“Where do they come from? You know we have Clan Ironmonger and Clan Hungry families amongst that lot, don’t you?”
“Yes. Many females are sexually unsatisfied in this valley.” Her belly laughing doesn’t relax me.
“I am serious! How do we feed this number for a start? Will he really, you know, service them all?”
“Clan Hungry will begin their bumper harvest shortly, and I know Lord Klar plans to visit Clan Greenfriend to negotiate something.” She smirks. “He enjoys seeding.”
“His tool will fall off!”
“Well, if it does, you, as his Blood Oath follower, will need to satisfy any female disappointment, I would think.”
I shudder and face her. I splutter, “That is not….”
She slaps my chest. “You should see your face. Lord Klar has serviced over three hundred goblins over a long night and into the next morning. Others assure me he can continue if we have animal flesh for him to consume. So, in short, you are off the hook, although your hunting skills will be a great help.”
“He must have enormous balls,” I say idly.
I climb to my feet when no more females stream from the forest, and with Izga beside me, we hurry forward, eager to learn of our next duty.
---Lord Klar POV
The glorious sight of four almost endless lines of female hobgoblins marching towards my inhospitable hillock fills me with possibilities. Once trained, they will be a counter to the goblins currently present and, depending upon the time they take to arrive, at least force the goblin mercenaries to consider any action against me before they do. The goblins toiling on the hill pause in shock and take several long looks. After a time, they continue.
The full roll call of my females, except for Izga, stand by my side or, in Luda’s case, stand in front of me. Thalgora is on my right, and Klaria is on my left. Duzsia the Relentless and Zoria Oath Keeper with Klaria. Zergoa and my special guest Voria with Thalgora.
“Thalgora, as my first wife, you are in charge. Duzsia, Zoria, Zergoa and Voria will command one-quarter of the new members of our clan. We will need hunters and soldiers. Whoever doesn’t make the grade will be under Klaria, my second wife, who will ensure they carry out all domestic duties, including planting and harvesting.”
“What about me?” asks Luda in a quiet voice.
I kiss the top of her head. “You and Izga need to stay by my side. Although occasionally, I will need you to solve special problems for me.”
Izga and Gorgrin assemble the new arrivals in the grass fields before the hillock, and all their eyes are on me. I raise my hands to quell their murmuring, and once all are quiet, I step forward.
“I welcome you all to a fresh beginning. You must work to remain, and everyone must toil or learn a skill. There will be no idle days, at least to start. We must secure our clan first. We are fortunate that a tribe of goblins is also part of our clan. Your personal view of them and other hobgoblins will remain your personal view. We are all one clan, and any disloyalty I will treat harshly.”
With my hands behind my back, I stroll down the hill towards them. I stop and fling an arm out behind me. “The hobgoblins on the hill are my wives or close associates. They have skills which they will teach you. You must learn them, or if you have the skills already, you must improve them as quickly as possible. For now, I need honesty.”
I survey those sitting on the grass before me, gaining eye-to-eye contact as often as possible. “Remain seated if you are supposed to be here. Those of you who perhaps got lost and accidentally ended up here but wish to stay, please stand.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I wave to my entourage to join me. Two families stand, Clan Ironmonger by the looks.
“Let me ask this question differently. If you stand now, I can negotiate with your Clan Head for your release. If you don’t stand now and your Clan Head sends others searching for you, I will allow them to take you.”
After much looking around, several other families stand with the first two and then the numbers spill. I estimate over one hundred have abandoned their clan.
“Form two lines, one in front of my first wife Thalgora and another line in front of my second wife, Klaria. They will write your name and clan name down so I can begin negotiations.”
My wives step forward, and those standing make their way toward them. I notice Izga and Gorgrin standing behind the crowd like two proud parents.
“Lord Klar!”
I search for the caller amongst those standing and instead find a flailing arm of someone sitting. “Yes.”
“What of us ferals? Yes, we know what you all call us, and we are proud of your name for us and our independence. Clan Beastbane cast-offs, left to fend for ourselves, but perhaps old Jarlgren will want us back?”
“No. I claim you all as mine now and forever. In fact, assemble on my right in your own group, as I assume you needed to trap, hunt, fish, or forage to stay alive on exhausted lands.” They slowly, at first and then with more confidence, gather. “On my lands, you should be able to use your skills to reap large harvests to feed not only yourselves but others of your new clan as well.”
There is no mistaking them. Their body odour is strong: wild hair, cured, uncured hide clothing, and footwear. Once seated, their eyes follow me.
“Those who have tents, please set them up close to the river, to the south or on my left. If you have room to take in others, please make an offer to anyone who remains seated.” Half of the crowd shuffles towards the south.
“Zergoa and Voria count up the family groups who remain. I need an estimate of the number of tents required.”
“Yes, Lord,” they reply.
“Luda, find Nudia for me, please. We need to know if they have enough extra tents or not.” The goblin settlement opposite the ford of mud brick and thatched one-room houses grows daily. The number finished, and the number started is in equilibrium, and the perfect rows of cottages of their future village multiply.
“Yes, Lord.”
I wave at Izga and Gorgrin to join me. Time for Izga’s investment in a particular Clan Head’s concubine to bear fruit, literally and figuratively. The concubine should be able to advise us of his limits, needs, and wants. All the advantages I need in my pending negotiations.