---IZGA, CONCUBINE OF LORD KLAR POV

Her indecision suits my purpose as I complete a stretcher, two long skinny tree trunk lengths with cross pieces to keep them separate. The leather armour of the dead threaded over the long lengths to provide the bed. Bloody face watches my every move, remaining silent with a dark green growing black bruise developing across her forehand. The weep of blood slowing to nothing some time ago.

“Fetch a rope. Time to rescue your sister.”

Mazgia stops, pivots, and stares at me. “I haven’t decided yet… Death is so final.” There is a tremor in her voice.

I climb to my feet. “Lord Klar will decide. Now, fetch the rope.”

“Am I going to die like the rest of my companions?” murmurs bloody face.

“You will be useful. Stay useful and you will live longer,” I retort.

After bickering and then bartering, we trek through the forest at night towards Lord Klar Clan’s hill. Morgia strapped to the stretcher, Mazgia on the rear arms, and Shazzola on the front arms of the stretcher. Whatever supplies and booty I choose hangs from those arms or lays across Morgia, while I keep a step slightly behind Shazzola, whispering her directions and cautions. She questioned how I could see in the dark and I hinted to her questioning wasn’t being useful.

After countless rest breaks, we find ourselves one more group, although smaller than most gathering before Lord Klar’s hillock. The assembly is like the first day, yet a more organised disorder, as many made their way towards where they thought they should be.

As the three accompany me limp and complain while closing in on the hillock, the hum from the chat of many already there grows. Purely because of our arrival or by coincidence, Lord Klar rises from a large throne-like chair and spread his arms out over the crowd, gesturing for silence. At his feet, bound and gagged, a male and two female hobgoblins. My sister-wives stand in a semi-circle behind my Lord in full armour, swords drawn, while off to one side the old crone squats in her carriage box, arms folded.

Given the grim faces on most standing there and the three captives, not a celebration then, I assume.

Lord Klar eyes the gathering and I like to think our stretcher isn’t the only reason his gaze lingers in our direction.

“We are here to witness justice,” he begins. “We will hear from both sides, the accusers, and the defenders, and then I will pass judgement. As Lord, my word, is final.”

Oh, that is different. As Lord, he should simply do what he believes is right. Why allow others to sway his mind or cloud the path towards the obvious result? After all, those of simple mind won’t understand the intricacies, better to make simple statements, like the prisoner did this and now dies. Everyone learns then the consequences if they repeat the prisoner’s crime. All this does is to allow the prisoner to deny their guilt and appeal to any of those with weak minds for salvation. When Lord Klar arrives at the obvious conclusion, the weak minds will hold doubt. Every time Lord Klar holds such an event, this doubt will grow. The innocent will deny because they aren’t guilty of the crime, but what does that matter? It is the lesson to the others, which is important. The guilty will deny because they want to avoid paying for their crime, yet they get this unnecessary chance to voice their denial and, therefore, spread unhelpful doubt. No good can come from this, I am certain.

Luda speaks first, which I didn’t expect. “I witnessed one of Xorbrim’s wives slay by decapitation, Nudia, while she lay in the forest. One of Xorbrim’s wives led Zergoa to Nudia’s decapitated body. Xorbrim and Lord Klar fought to the death to determine guilt. Xorbrim surrendered instead to avoid his fate, so he must pay now. Both of his wives’ lives belong to Lord Klar, one for the death of Nudia and the other for the death of her unborn hob, babe.”

Luda’s green complexion glows with rage, yet her voice, while certain and strong, holds a passionate, even temper throughout.

Whether on her own initiative or because of a signal from Lord Klar, the old crone rises from her carriage box and ambles along until she finds an agreeable centre. She glances at Xorbrim and then turns away to face the sea of faces, goblin, and hobgoblin alike.

“Nudia’s ambush of the assassins sent to slay Lord Torngul’s emissary, a remarkable feat of never-before-seen display of archery. How was this sudden and miraculous improvement in skill possible?” The old crone shuffles to the left. “Why was Nudia laying in the forest? That question needs an answer.” The old crone spreads her open hands at her hips. “Because she was a spy!” the old crone raises her voice, and the gathering listens. “She was in the forest, full, no, overflowing with confidence to the point she didn’t believe herself ordinary. She didn’t believe herself one of us.” I notice her eyes linger on her tribe, the Zoria Oath Keeper goblins. “Did she answer to a different master?” The old crone shuffles about for several moments. I suspect she waits for the slow thinkers to catch up to her line of thought. With a sudden snap of her arm, she points at the male hobgoblin. “Xorbrim, like any other placed in the same situation, slew his skulking enemy. Her actions proved herself an enemy of our tribe as none of our tribe sent her out to spy.”

“Yes!” a shout calls from the crowd of goblins, others follow and then one speaks, “Her archery kills suddenly Koria Keen Eye like! Her actions, nocking an arrow, drawing back the string, her grip, not hers. I should know I trained her like I did many in our tribe. She was as if another controlled her actions.”

Murmurings grew louder, worse, agreeing head nodding spread across the many, especially the goblins. Lord Klar’s smile fades from his face. My hands grip the handles of my daggers and I witness the same apprehension in the eyes of my sister wives.

The murmurings clarify into words… ‘she was a spy,’ ‘spies deserve death,’ ‘she wasn’t Nudia any longer,’

Lord Klar stands. Only now do I realise his height, his stature as his hands wave downwards, signalling calm. Stubborn at first, the talk amongst the crowd quietens. Has Lord Klar lost the confidence of the crowd? Of his subjects?

“So, all believe Nudia, once a courageous and clever protector of tribe Zoria Oath Keeper goblins, is no longer of your tribe and therefore her death of no concern?”

Agreeable goblin voices backing her, the old crone speaks, “Yes Lord, she is no longer of the Zoria Oath Keeper tribe. Her death is just reward for her crime of spying.” Even from this distance, I sense perverse satisfaction in her voice, so Lord Klar will certainly detect the same.

“No!” screams Luda. “She was our sister.” Luda points at Xorbrim, wrist and ankles in bindings, sitting on the ground at Lord Klar’s feet. “He slaughtered her. He deserves death. He fought a duel to the death and instead of dying, threw his weapons away like a coward to survive. Lord Klar, Xorbrim deserves the death he avoided through cowardice, while his sister-wives deserve whatever mercy you grant.”

There is a gleam, a twinkle in the old crone’s eyes and, like a killing blow I know is coming, which I can’t avoid the downward swing of, I wait for her retort.

The old crone now points at Luda. “Your sister, your spy!”

Simple words, easily repeated and easily understood. The goblins quickly take up the chant and crowd forward.

“Quiet!” growls Lord Klar. The crowd obeys. The old crone’s jaw drops.

“Lord Klar,” appeals Luda. He stares her down, not only into silence, though. Her body loses all will and wilts until prone and out of my view.

Nudia belonged to no one. The goblins accepted her death because of their suspicions of her. The crone’s words confirming this rejection of her. Luda, in her emotional outburst, claimed her as one of ours. Your sister, your spy.

“Nudia was, as far as I knew, still a member of the Zoria Oath Keeper tribe. Like all those who belong to the tribe of Zoria Oath Keeper goblins, you are my slaves, my property and only I hold all rights over my property. Xorbrim slew one of my slaves without my permission. When offered noble combat to decide his guilt or innocence, he fled his certain death.” Lord Klar's eyes linger upon the old crone. “Therefore, Xorbrim and his wives are mine to do with what I will. This judgement is final, as is my right as Clan Head.”

The goblins step back while around me, the Clan Beastbane ferals, nock arrows and advance.

Xorbrim throws his head back, issuing full, bellowing laughter. He stops once he gains everyone’s attention. “You forget, Lord Klar, my surrender to you was because you, like Nudia, aren’t ordinary. As a veteran of many battles and a survivor, I don’t apologise for wanting to live instead of dying. But!” Somehow, he rises, straightening his body, perhaps. “For a youth, your prowess with a sword is exceptional, beyond what it should be, otherworldly, in fact. I surrendered instead of facing certain death from an impossible foe. So, who are you, Lord Klar?”

Slit his throat, Lord, why do you hesitate? This is like a bleeding wound, which only a killing blow can stop.

“I am Clan Head. I order all my goblin slaves back across the river and to remain in their village until I need them.”

The goblins search for guidance from the old crone. She dallies, not indecisively, more like calculating. Does she give up the field or press the confrontation? Perhaps she values this Xorbrim more than any think, what did Nudia overhear? What does Luda know about him?

Given a signal I don’t see, Duzsia the Relentless, Zoria Oath Keeper and Zergoa step forward to position themselves behind Xorbrim and his sister-wives. Lord Klar whispers, Zoria Oath Keeper and Zergoa swap position, so Zergoa now stands behind Xorbrim.

The old crone motions to turn away and then pauses. I, like her, wonder why Lord Klar swapped Zoria and Zergoa? Aren’t his wives all equal? What is better about Zergoa guarding Xorbrim? Or is reverse thinking required here? What is bad about Zoria guarding Xorbrim?

She waves her goblin tribe back, waiting for them to turn away and slowly recede from earshot. Lord Klar’s hobgoblins relax and calm settles over the camp. I nudge Shazzola forward and we begin our climb up the hillock when I freeze.

“Know, Lord Klar, Zoria Oath Keeper’s tribe will never suffer the death of Xorbrim. He is, unknown to many, our protector. For generations, he has guided us. You hear me, Lord Klar, generations. His true name is Xorbrim the Undying. He is the son of Zoria Oath Keeper, and he will not die today or tomorrow and, slaves or not, we will rise up to avenge him if you take his life.”

As she turns away, she, like everyone else, hears Zoria’s dagger drop loose from her hand to land in one of Xorbrim’s wife’s lap. She then leaps on Xorbrim, wrapping her body around him. Zergoa and Duzsia, the quickest to react, try to pull her off. Yet, shortly after they give up, once they realise she isn’t trying to kill, instead she is being protective. Xorbrim tries to resist, failing. His daughter-wives lean their body weight into Zoria, which she ignores. Zergoa and Duzsia soon right both and hold them.

Luda rises, her face blank instead of in surprise. She knew!

The old crone cackles. “I will leave our guardian in your wife’s devout protection and affection.” With that, she ambles away, occasionally snickering to herself.

Lord Klar and his wives, including myself, gather around Zoria and the three prisoners.

“Thalgora and Voria see to the training of our future hobgoblin army. Likewise, Klaria, see to the tilling and planting of the fields before the opportunity passes and we all court starvation.” His grim face accepts no rebuke, and the three named leave to gather their charges and continue his long-term plan. Zoria climbs to her feet, her face glowing green. “Gorgrin, lead out the wild ones and continue hunting. By the end of this day, the aroma of seared game needs to overwhelm everyone’s nostrils.”

“Yes, Lord,” he says and as quick as can be gathers the wild ones to him and leads them towards the forest.

Xorbrim’s smile is never ending as Lord Klar speaks, and I wish for nothing more than to widen it with my dagger.

“Xorbrim,” says Lord Klar, grabbing our attention. “Choose one of your daughter-wives.”

Zoria’s eyes fill with tears, while Xorbrim’s face freezes. Awakening to the peril in Lord Klar's cold harsh words, he slowly shakes his head from side to side.

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“Zoria displays a certain affection for you, but such a condition doesn’t extend to your wives and even if it did, I would make her choose. If you don’t choose, both will die gurgling on their own blood.”

“You don’t need to do this,” he gasps. His first display of desperation?

“Why don’t I need to do this?”

“They… they are the direct descendants of the two Oath Keepers who secreted me away as a babe, who chose mortal lives and the birthing of heirs to protect me. They are of equal unlimited value to me.”

“Their loss then, one or both, at least equal to the loss of Nudia to me?”

His head lifts. “She was your spy, then?”

“No,” I reply. “Luda was my spy. Nudia was but a keen amateur as her death proves,” says Lord Klar, a sadness in his voice. “Now, choose.”

His head sways. “I cannot.”

The sliding of Lord Klar’s dagger from its sheath is loud in the silence. The morning sun rises. We can hear Thalgora and Voria shout orders on the wind, the distant wail of the riding beasts as they pull at ploughs and yet we know, familiar sounds or not, our husband has drawn his weapon.

For whatever reason, Zoria hovers near Xorbrim, yet she glances at both of his wives. She wants them all to live; I realise.

“Release me, Lord Klar. I will lead them away, the three of them. The goblins will fall into line, and you can complete what you have started,” begs Zoria.

“What makes you think you can convince them without revealing truths best left alone?”

“I…” Her hands drape across his shoulder. “I can’t give up this chance, Lord.”

“Come,” he says, and we all follow. Duzsia and I drag Xorbrim’s wives by their collars, while Lord Klar drags Xorbrim with Zoria, all the while playing nervously with her hands. A dead looking Luda tags along. Making our way through the hobgoblin tent village, the rushing river a short time after flows before us.

Lord Klar leaves Xorbrim by the shore, while calling Zoria to him as he steps into the river. The reverse ceremony is quick and as Lord Klar breathes life into our former sister-wife, I realise our bond is no more. She spits water out of her lungs and splutters back to life to live out her days in the body of Briksia, the last of her line from the Southern Valley. Duzsia hands off the collar of Xorbrim’s other wife to me as she leaves my side to approach Zoria. A last farewell, perhaps, although I didn’t think they were especially close.

“You performed the Klugite Priestess ritual. How do you know of it? What is truly going on here?” says Xorbrim. His head cranes about searching for an answer in our faces after finding none in Lord Klar’s.

“The body of Briksia belongs to another,” says Lord Klar as he faces Xorbrim down.

“No,” I yelp in surprise, drawing life into even Luda’s dead eyes.

Duzsia doesn’t stop at drawing her blade across Zoria’s throat. To the horror of us all, she continues until she holds Zoria’s head by her hair, free of her body, which slumps back into the rushing water of the river. The corpse polluting the river with a stream of black blood.

“I told you, you can never trust an agent of Rexa! Zoria spoke in her favour, defended her, and look at her reward,” says Xorbrim.

“Why?” asks Lord Klar.

“She will reveal anything to convince him, regardless of any promise. I learnt long ago secrets are best kept, not shared.”

Luda, for reasons only known to herself, edges away from the river. Is she in shock? She stumbles.

“I am the one at risk, not you,” says Lord Klar while staring at Zoria’s dead eyes. Duzsia senses his focus and flings Zoria’s head into the river.

“Risk?” Duzsia tilts her head. “You play this as a game. You summon us to your side, and we are your loyal wives. I, for one, am diligent in this role, yet if we don’t finish what needs to be done this time, I assume there will be another summoning?”

In the brief silence, Xorbrim opens his mouth to speak and then slowly closes again. The furrowing of his brow signals his confusion, given Duzsia’s double speak. Her talk, though, seals the small nagging voice inside of me which always doubted Lord Klar could summon my spirit back to him after the death of my body.

Lord Klar approaches Duzsia and relieves her of the bloody dagger. “What I am building here is to ensure her end, I assure you.”

“Then why release Zoria? Why not instead simply slay these three, destroy the goblin slaves when they find out, or slay them in their beds before then and continue?”

“Zoria needed to reconcile her past without my ownership shadowing her. I thought to give her that chance. As for the goblins, I don’t wish them ill and they could be valuable allies in the battle ahead.”

Duzsia turns away from Lord Klar and kneels beside the river to wash her hands, exposing her back to him. Deliberately I wonder? When he doesn’t move, she says, “Softness will not hasten us to our goal. Revealing our secrets will endear no one to us. They will shy away in fear instead.” She climbs to her feet and swivels about. “You are all powerful, and yet you entertain those beneath you. Grab your power, rally those who would listen to you, and go crush her.”

“Do we know where she is? The number of those loyal to her. Her enemies?”

“Who is ‘the she’ you are referring to,” snaps Xorbrim. His frustration plain. The snippets of information from eavesdropping were not enough for him to put any pieces together. Given I am one of Lord Klar’s wives, even I struggle to follow their debate. Lord Klar swivels to face him while Duzsia strides forward until she stands beside Lord Klar, hands on her hips.

Lord Klar and Duzsia exchange glances while he hands her bloodied dagger back.

With a flash of impossible speed, Duzsia stabs at Xorbrim twice. The image of his gaping eye sockets burn themselves into my memory as his body falls back. I feel his daughter-wives tense. They are trying to comprehend the death of their father-husband as am I. Shortly after; I hold the collars of flopping heads, their throats cut deep given the spurting of blood, but not severed as their spines continue to support their skulls.

“You can let them fall now Izga.”

I hear his voice, yet until his hands touch mine, I can’t move. As the body’s fall away, Duzsia takes her sword to them, the one perfect swing shearing through both necks, their heads flying towards the river to land with a squish on the shore.

“Luda. Pick up their heads,” says Lord Klar. “Luda! Isn’t this what you wanted?”

She pushes one of her feet after the other and collects the first by her dark hair and then the second, releasing them beside the headless corpses.

“Now, tell me of your third guilt before I throttle you,” he demands as his fingers squeeze and release around her throat.

“I am to blame.” Her words are soft, yet my superb hearing picks them up. I realise his seed and blood have made me into someone more than I could have dreamed of. The price? Follow him, without question. “She got me drunk on mead. My mead. From the honey of my bees. I enjoyed tending to my bees. Of all your loyal wives, I was the last, without a name, alone. She made her quest sound not only exciting, but righteous. Yet, I knew secrecy was best.” Her eyes search out Duzsia, who nods in agreement. “My mead was for others, not me, and as I drank more, her words made more sense, so I told her. I told Kor where we hid the Flint Arrows’ ancient armour. When I recovered from my stupor days later, the news came of Rexa’s victory. Her son wearing an armour, which made him impervious to harm. An armour, which sealed the fate of everyone.” Her shoulders slump and any energy in her body flees.

Lord Klar staggers back while releasing her. Duzsia runs to comfort him, while I stand, my mouth wide open. The tales talked about Rexa’s champion. In many a battle, he would be the sole survivor, his fighting prowess and his faith in Lord Klug supposedly protecting him from harm. The truth is more real and terrifying, invulnerable armour. Is our mission hopeless?

Lord Klar is weakly shaking Luda when I finally collect myself.

“If you told Kor, how did Rexa end up with the armour?”

Luda wasn’t present. Her flopping head proof enough.

“Leave her be Lord, our business is across the river,” says Duzsia, a cold hard edge to her voice.

“Shouldn’t we gather others first?” I say, my stomach a ball of nerves.

She giggles, like a child. “As a recent wife, you underestimate Lord Klar’s full battle prowess.”

He stands on his own two feet. “You think me capable of slaughtering pregnant goblins?”

“But Lord, they will always be disloyal. They will revenge the death of Xorbrim.”

“No. The old crone and possibly her second in charge are the key. Xorbrim was her secret. She waited for the tribe to leave before announcing him to us. So, her death will remove that threat.” His hand grabs at Duzsia’s tusks. “But if not, then we will do what we must do.”

She forces her head forward and nuzzles into his chest.

“Each of us, grab a corpse, stuff the head into their clothing, if necessary, as we must drag their bodies away from the hobgoblin tent village and find a depression or dig a burial pit. After all, when we spread the rumour of Zoria’s betrayal, how she snuck in and freed them to run away with them, no one can find their bodies and spoil the tale.”

---LORD KLAR POV

I shiver as I dress in my armour. The swim across a narrow fast-flowing river, naked except for a loincloth which the current threatened to take every stroke still vivid. Yet, not as stark as watching Xorbrim’s body rapidly decay before our eyes once Luda decapitated the corpse. I suspect the overloaded nanorobots finally gave up. Even with his eyes out, they fought to resurrect him. A legacy benefit of over two hundred years of sipping Lord Farmer Hob’s blood, my blood. Which raises another question. Where did they keep their stash? Too late to ask them now, I muse.

Izga is the last. She dangles from the rope strung across the river, nudging her bundle of clothes and armour before her.

An elbow jabs at my ribs. “What are you staring at, Lord?”

The joy in Duzsia’s voice is infectious and I reply, “Admiring the wife with easily the best naked body of all my wives.”

She tackles me to the ground and shortly after, Izga’s wet and shivering body joins us in play. Luda crouches a way off and my hand beckons to her. She shakes her head. I try again.

“Izga, go grab Luda.”

Luda jumps to her feet and looks about to search for an escape. She gives up. We are here in secret. Where can she run to?

After our tumble, I ask Izga to go point, with Luda remaining firmly by my side. Duzsia ranges out before us, yet behind Izga. The plan is simple. Find the biggest tent or building. Those who knew for certain are now all corpses. Perhaps hasty slaughter has a downside. My inner hob roars back to life with a strong and defiant no. Long time old friend. Time to swing my blade more often than not.

We considered simply walking in, but inquisitive goblins would probably gather to us. Another variation was a possibility, but there wasn’t a reason for Lord Torngul’s emissary to return, hence stealth. Luda took pains to warn us. What about the many goblin ears? Impossible. I hoped for some sort of miracle which we got, kind of.

The building furthest away from the river were abandoned. Our first surprise. The biggest building was in the centre of the goblin village, not unexpected. As we darted from empty cottage to empty cottage towards the village centre, we discovered the reason. Hearing her speak before seeing her.

“I have set discord within our Clan Lord’s house. Either he will need to spill blood or at the very least one of his wives will trade in her loyalties. More I can’t say.”

Several shouts of ‘how do you know’ and ‘explain’ go unanswered.

Under Izga’s guidance, we take a path to the back of the biggest building in the village. Or hope being this is her residence. The clay between the logs is fresh, the cement-like mix between the foundation bricks likewise. With our new stone blood steel swords, we dig out the cement from between the bricks where they meet the logs.

“Don’t leave the village until told we can as our Lord’s mind is frail, possibly far from stable,” she announces and then chuckles. “He is in a state of shock, not grasping the extent of his true power.”

“Are we leaving?” shouts a voice.

“Net yet,” her reply. “If possible, we will leave with his blessing. Him willingly releasing us from slavery.”

Cheering.

“How?”

“Why?”

“I cannot say yet am hopeful.”

“What of our warriors?” shouts a voice.

“Silence,” she calls. “Now, back to your cottages and wait for further word. None leave the village.”

The leather hide door flaps aside. I, like my wives, tense as we lurk in our respective hiding places because, unlike most leaders, she doesn’t gather a great deal of goods and luxuries about her. There are robes hanging from pegs in the walls, several hanging rugs, some wooden chests, a prominent chair in front of a firepit and multiple beds with privacy curtains around them.

“Are you certain all we need to do is wait?” asks a male voice. Familiar. The one who introduced me to the tribe and requested I seed them.

“Yes. You weren’t there. One of his wives threw her body around Xorbrim, seeking to protect him. Most odd, yet useful for us if she abandons Lord Klar.”

There is some scuffling about. “What of our warriors?”

“The signal has been sent. It depends how far away they now ply their trade, so we must bide our time.”

“Numbers?”

“I tire of your questions. I have no answers for you, as the return call has never been given before.” Even I hear the exasperation in her voice.

“Over one hundred though, surely?”

“At least, now go. Ensure all remain in their cottages, as we need to wait out the change I have put into motion.”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Shut up and join the old crone. I want to ask some questions,” hisses Luda. She wanted to do this, confront the crone. A goblin-on-goblin confrontation wouldn’t, I believe, cause alarm, and Luda would have many reasons to pursue the crone and her avoiding detection — understandable.

“My dear girl, one yell from me, and your life would be forfeit,” snarks the old crone.

“Not before I slit his or your throat, perhaps both. So, sit down, both of you, on the ground.”

Duzsia didn’t want to play any games. Quickly in, slaughter, and then out. The out was always going to be the challenge I explained to her.

“Ask your questions, girl.” The crone’s voice is tired and basically fed up, by the sounds of it.

“Who is Xorbrim, truly? No one can live for two hundred years.”

The crone chuckles. “He is the son of Zoria Oath Keeper and to be such, he is over two hundred years old. You either believe this or you don’t.”

“Why did you abandon Nuda? She was a sworn member of your tribe?”

“Lord Klar’s seed seduced her,” hisses the crone.

“Like you?” retorts Luda.

“Never!”

“Is that why you don’t use a walking stick anymore? Does gobbling his seed explain how you are now able enough to climb into and out of a carriage? There is also a spring in your step which hasn’t been there for years, I suspect.”

“Grandmother?”

“Oh, shut up. What about it? I made a small sacrifice to better serve my tribe. Something the likes of you won’t be able to understand.”

“What, so the returning goblin warriors will see a spry crone? One capable of leading the entire tribe, not simply the pregnant females?”

This was our chance to get valuable information, the other questions asked and answered to a large extent. What would the crone reveal now that Luda shared her consumption of my seed with her grandson? Him shocked by her action.

“They would need a firm hand. They roam far and wide, slaughtering at the behest of others, and now must serve the tribe. If Lord Klar denies us freedom, I am certain four hundred goblins screaming for hobgoblin blood will convince him it would be easier to release us instead of dying under their swords.”

“Grandmother…”

His words stick in his throat as I stroll into view, discarding the cloth partition from around one bed as I rise from the necessary squatting position.

“I thought I smelt a certain stink, Lord Klar, but your pet goblin’s arrival lured me into a false sense of knowing the source.”

She leans one hand on her grandson’s shoulder, preparing to stand. “Stay. Now be a good crone. I would have some questions of my own.” I approach her and her grandstand, looking down on both.

“Yes,” she huffs.

Luda shifts to one side, making way for me, the crone ignoring her as I lean forward.

Luda’s dagger plunges into and remains sticking out of the old crones eye. My wife catching her body as the life inside extinguishes. Her grandson opens his mouth and Izga’s dagger draws a black line across his throat.

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