---LORD KLAR POV
The flap of the tent shifts aside. “Lord, you need to come with me,” says Izga, her voice on edge.
Duzsia and I exchange glances and rush out of the tent to follow her, leaving my three scribes with their mouths hanging open.
In the distance, marching towards the hill, is Zergoa, leading Luda by the hand. An escort of hobgoblins only recently separated from them, it seems, although I notice, even at this distance, several are casting worrying looks at Luda.
Before I realise it, I am half-jogging around the walls and ditches until I am face-to-face with Zergoa. Her green complexion is pale, her eyes trying to avoid mine, and I need to grab her tusks. Silence, except for heavy breathing. I shake her tusks.
“Lord.” Something must trigger in her head, and she continues, “Something broke Luda. I found her burying a body, the last or maybe the first of over twenty. An estimate of what she says, if true. I didn’t think it would do any good to take her to the site to explain. The smoke of the pyre would be sure to draw others.”
“The pyre?” offers Duzsia.
“Yes, sister, no ordinary fire with smoke. A pyre for a formable foe. As much as I can make out, she decapitated his corpse with an axe…” Zergoa swallows and then whispers, “She said he would come back like Xorbrim.”
I rock back on my heels and stare at Luda, hands at her sides and eyes looking far away. When I sent Zergoa to investigate the smoke, I hoped Luda wasn’t involved. I reasoned that removing the rope across the river would have been a quick task, and Luda would have made herself busy doing something else in the name of her Lord. She would easily explain her overnight absence. I convinced myself.
My eyes study Luda. “Duzsia, you have your mission. Deliver the parchment.”
“She can come with me, Lord.” I turn about to face her, my expression grim. “Luda can’t stay here like that…” I grind my teeth. Duzsia continues ignoring my not-so-subtle objection, “Lord, you saw the looks the ten gave her.”
“How will you look after her when you are in Hobgoblin Town? You know, even now, she wouldn’t be able to… well, cope.”
Izga places her hand on Duzsia’s shoulder. Duzsia’s hands cup my cheeks. “Trust me, Lord. I will take one or more of your new clan members with me. They can care for her while they wait for me to finish with your business in Hobgoblin Town. I will meet them on the trail. We can talk about things. Warrioress to warrioress, wife to wife and reborn to reborn.” The last words are a hoarse whisper.
“Don’t play me, wife,” I growl as I feel my inner hob rise to the occasion.
“Luda has always struggled. Her sister left us on Nudia’s death. She has never won her name…”
“She has a name…” exhales Zergoa, causing Duzsia and I to slack-mouth gaze at her. “She earnt the name Luda Bloodstalker.”
“Bloodstalker,” I mumble.
“Did she explain why? How?” asks Duzsia.
“While I have an advantage, having witnessed some of her kills, the name easily suggests a stealthy murderer, where blood spilling would feature.”
I resist the urge to slap Zergoa. After all, we are trying to understand. My inner hob shouts at me to act, and I need to place one of my hands in the other and rest them on my waist.
“Her kills?” asks Duzsia, while examining Luda some more.
“They were across the throat or under chin wounds, a single strike, bloody. Her kills bled out if unlucky, instant if lucky, yet always in puddles of their blood. They were the wounds on the five corpses, the ten found, hence their nervousness. They thought a great fiend of death stalked the valley when they first found the bodies. To learn Luda was responsible, well, they had some difficulty. Fortunately, or unfortunately, when challenged, Luda could recite every detail, let us not call it, battle, more of a slaughter.” Zergoa shuffles closer to Duzsia and I. “The recounting of the slaying sending her into this latest silence.” Zergoa reaches for Duzsia’s hand. “I blame myself, Lord. I shouldn’t have asked her to explain while we stood amongst her bled-out kills. The amount of blood, Lord…”
I approach my goblin wife and kneel before her. She sees right through me. I draw her into a hug, squeeze and release her, my hands on her shoulders. Her eyes blink, open wide, and glisten. Tears and reflective sunlight? Then she slams her body into mine and wraps her arms around my neck.
“I enjoyed the stealthy slaughter in your name, Lord.” She suckles on my earlobe. “Their struggles for air, gurgling on their blood, music to my ears, Lord.” She shudders, throws her head back, and rolls her eyes. Did she just orgasm? Her eyes focus on mine. “They named me Lord. I have earnt my name!” She closes her eyes and grits her teeth. Again?
“I know, Luda Bloodstalker.”
Her smile grows wide, and then her lips are on mine—devouring, biting and cruel. Then my inner hob roars to life. I return her assault double-fold until I taste blood, hers, mine or both, I don’t know. A guttural roar issues from deep within her, and her body stiffens and becomes a dead weight. My embrace of her is all that stops her from crashing to the ground. I sense my inner hob licking his lips. He is beyond satisfied. I question him; he doesn’t answer, of course. He never answers.
“Carry her, Lord. With your permission, I will utilise one of our beasts, and she can sit in front of me under a cloak until she wakes,” says Duzsia.
Izga whistles. “Klaria will not suffer the loss of one beast she uses to prepare the land, and how can Luda go with you in her condition?”
The voicing of her name causes Luda to stir in my arms. Her head swivels about, and her eyes rest on me once satisfied. “I am perfectly well enough to walk,” she declares, then skips out of my arms. She looks over her shoulder while wiping blood from a healed lip, challenging Duzsia to catch her.
Duzsia lays a hand on my shoulder. “I will look after her, I promise.”
One arm around Izga’s waist, the other around Zergoa’s, and I stand and watch as Duzsia chases Luda around the base of the hillock on the river side. Crossing the ford are three riding beasts, and following behind are several female hobgoblins, all on the same journey for the same purpose, to enter Lord Torngul’s service.
---DUZSIA, THE RELENTLESS, CONCUBINE OF LORD KLAR POV
Lord Torngul’s throne room had changed little. The position of his high-backed throne was still opposite the double-door entry. The space in between was now occupied by two sets of long tables and chairs, which funnelled all who entered towards him and his throne. This was a slight change, and I found myself oddly imprisoned.
Lord Torngul, or as I knew him, Zeb Stone Grim, father to Koria and Luda, lounged on his throne, secure and in comfort, sipping on a glass of wine. I refuse to shuffle my feet or fidget with my hands. Instead, I wait for him to say what he needs to, as he knows I will report back to Lord Klar.
“Dorgrav has been in my ear,” he says.
I don’t offer a reply. In fact, I remain impassive.
“You didn’t travel on the road but across the Grassplains. Why?”
At last, a question. Yet, I feel this is the pre-amble, the chit-chat. “We received word your Major Domo was to be ambushed on his way to us and set about preventing that. I determined it unwise to travel back the same way.”
“He doesn’t know, then?”
“No.” I fold my arms on my chest. “He seems a nervous fellow outside of these walls. While the Grassplains had its surprises, depressions, and gullies following no marked path while mounted on the beasts, none could set up an ambush.”
Lord Torngul bobs his head. “He has never been outside these walls, outside of Hobgoblin Town, for that matter, as far as I know. I apologise on his behalf, as I assume he would have been annoying.”
“I can ignore annoying things,” I deadpan reply, including Lords who act as Lords, even when alone with someone who knows the truth.
He raises an eyebrow, shapes his mouth to speak and then mumbles instead. Lifting his glass of wine, he pauses. “What has Lord Klar been doing?”
Am I about to find out what is really on his mind now? “Many things. You will need to be more exacting. He does request you sign a Deed of Freedom for his goblin slaves.” I show him the scroll, and after he nods, I approach and hand him the document.
I contain my surprise. He is reading the contents. This pretence aside, isn’t Zeb Stone Grim Lord Farmer Hob’s bound servant? I hear scratching, a quill scribbling across the parchment. He blows on the ink and returns the quill and inkpot to the arm of his throne. Next, he imprints his ring onto the page beside his signature.
Holding the scroll high, he says, “I will return this to Lord Klar, as I feel I need to inspect his progress.”
“That won’t be necessary, Lord.” He leans forward. “I mean, he expects me to return.” Not me, exactly. Durrilsia and her companions.
“I know you have spread that rumour, including his request for carrier pigeons, but I suspect Duzsia the Relentless is on a mission that requires her special talent for tenacity.” He sits back on his throne with a broad, friendly smile. “I realise we are both servants of his, yet I believe things are, erm, happening which concern me yet have as their source Lord Klar, and I have responsibilities…”
I need to close my mouth to pick up my jaw. “You have no lasting responsibilities to those around you, to this moment of living. When dead, you will be reborn, like me, into a new time, a new body, and serve Lord Farmer Hob once again.”
He whispers. I would have missed the words, except Lord Klar’s seed has improved my hearing.
“Impossible,” I reply. He can’t make this decision. He is bound.
“They tell me Briksia, Warrior from the Valley of the Hobs, has gone missing? Or, as we know her, Zoria Oath Keeper. While I am uncertain of your sensitivity regarding our spirit bonds, with her in particular, there is now a hollowness. How do you explain that?”
“She has left the valley with Xorbrim the Undying, her son, with Lord Klar’s consent. Distance?”
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
His laughter is long and loud, to the point he must stamp his foot to recover. Wiping his eyes, he stares at me. “That she may have, but before she did, Lord Klar released her from his service. That is the hollowness I feel. If you want to know how I know the difference, in a word, Koria Keen Eye, my daughter.”
My throat runs dry, so I don’t even try to swallow. How does he sense these subtle changes? Because he is a male? Because of his father-daughter bond?
“Well, Duzsia the Relentless. I am waiting for your answer.”
“She asked to be released from her spirit bond, and Lord Klar agreed.”
“Good. Why was that so difficult?”
“What did you mean? I know the difference. Koria Keen Eye?” I assumed he didn’t require me to answer his question.
“She is present, but not present?” I must have revealed a tell because he continued. “Confusing, isn’t it? Her spirit is definitely here.” He raises his hands, floating them between us. “But she doesn’t occupy a body. So how does that work?”
“She shared a body with another…” I explain as much as I know to him, and afterwards, I turn a chair about from the table and sit, my arms crossed, to wait for his response.
“The first time, on death, we rose, drawn into the black. Koria’s presence would suggest we don’t have to. Somehow, we can remain.”
“Koria’s bond to you and Luda, perhaps,” I offer.
“Possibly.” His thumb and forefinger rub his chin. “There is a more powerful bond.”
“Lord Klar?”
His hands grab the arms of his throne, and as he nests, he says, “Yes, somehow, we can linger, and Koria has found a way. I wonder what will be possible if Lord Klar slays again? Can she claim the body of the fresh kill?”
I jump to my feet. “That would mean we could die several times in a cycle, and only his death would release us until his future return.”
“Which means when I explain this to him and ask him to release me, the decision to do so will be much easier, don’t you think?”
“You like this present life and don’t wonder about any future life you may have?” I can’t believe the words I speak.
His kind smile is a surprise. “I have found true love, I believe. Given your tale about Xorbrim the Undying, it might be possible to extend my life somewhat and be a willing historian for Lord Klar on his next return.”
“Extending the life of your true love also?” I tease.
“Of course. I could ask Lord Klar to spirit bind her, but she would soon, beyond her control, forget me. No, this is the best way, the only way.”
“When will you be leaving?”
“Almost immediately. That will give Dorgrav all the time he needs to train the Manor’s new staff without my presence causing undue pressure.”
I stroll towards the double doors and look back over my shoulder. “I will tell my wild ones to escort you back over the Grassplains while I continue my mission for Lord Klar.”
“There is a sadness in your voice, Duzsia the Relentless. You don’t believe you will survive?”
“If you wish to take some air well beyond the town’s limits, you can greet your daughter, possibly one last time, as she is on the same mission as I.”
He charges out of his throne and then loses all his energy, shaking his head. “How you described my daughter, she doesn’t seem to be my daughter any longer. Luda Bloodstalker. A name which suggests kill or be killed, and I would rather remember her as before, a nameless goblin who loved her father.”
The throne room doors clang shut behind me as I double-time down the wide circular stairs. I say what I have to say to those who wait for me. I take what I must take for the mission ahead, and I leave my beast in the care of two new stable hands. A last, long look back and I jog through the main gate of the manor, heading west and a rendezvous.
---VORLORA, APPRENTICE OF DUZSIA, DEVOTED TO LORD KLAR POV
All this journey, the goblin named Luda has been quiet. Following when required to, eating, drinking and other things, yet no conversation, no idle chatter. Mistress Duzsia explained she was a concubine of Lord Klar, who needed some time, hence her keeping company with us.
I wave my hand in front of her face. Nothing, not even blinking her eyes. She understood Duzsia well enough. We snuck away from the others at her signal into the long grass. Luda kept low while remaining silent to an impossible level of skill. She stopped some ways off the path we had made, squatted on her haunches and didn’t move again. I couldn’t tell if there was a specific reason she chose this spot or something random.
After a time, she whispers, “We have friends.” Her head tilts first one way and then another. “Quietly draw your sword and wait. Be ready.”
While busy carefully drawing my sword, she disappears. I am alone, squatting at the end of a makeshift path—the long grass sways above me, a slight rustling noise, nothing more. My twitchy fingers on each hand strangle the shield’s leather strap and my sword’s grip.
A male goblin appears before me, and I instinctively thrust my sword at his face. He cackles and looks beyond my shoulder. My sword thrust falls short, of course. He knew. His wild display is a distraction, and as I withdraw my sword, I know death is behind me. A shiver rolls down my spine. I will disappoint Duzsia.
His face reveals what I sense. My death is overdue. While I shouldn’t look away from an enemy, I glance over my shoulder and discover thick, waving grass. In an instant, I launch myself forward, leading with my sword.
His eyes fly open. A face full of questions stares at me while his hands, in fine leather gloves, grasp my sword’s blade. I twist the blade. He yelps in response. His thick black blood runs down the length of the blade towards me. Before I can think, I release my sword, turn to one side, and unload my last meal on the ground beside me. I am afraid to look, yet I must. His body leans towards me, propped up by my sword, the look of surprise on his face unmistakable. I heave and empty my stomach again.
Something or someone tramples through the grass towards me. I push his body over and wrench my sword free with all the nervous energy I can muster. I remember to wipe my blade on his body, to remove his black blood and the evidence of his death from my weapon. Duzsia’s words ring in my ears. I ready myself, taking up a sword and shield stance. Then I calm my mind and body.
“Friend.”
I hear the word, and then another goblin body flops into the small clearing. His head is lolling about on his shoulders, his gapping neck exposing the back of his throat. The blood… I dry heave this time, and before fully recovering, a hand pats my shoulder.
“First kill?”
The excitement in her voice is such that I can’t comprehend her joy at witnessing my disgrace.
“Yes,” I croak while feeling the warmth of a flush of blood reach my face.
“You should be proud of your first kill. By the looks and quality of his equipment, he was a master assassin.” Her bright eyes and enthusiasm for my kill grow on me. After all, I thought I would be dead by now.
“Possibly. Instinct,” I mumble.
“They made their deaths easier for us, though, two masters, but not a team. They needed to chat to coordinate, chat that, by the blessing of Lord Klar, I could overhear. Now they are dead.”
I fish a rag from my belt and begin cleaning my blade as Duzsia instructed me. Raising my head from my work, I find her ransacking our kills. “We aren’t a team?”
“No,” she answers over her shoulder.
“So, why did we succeed?”
She thumbs the blade of a dagger, and with grace, swivels to face me. “You did as you were told. You accepted my leadership. Regardless of any truth, these two thought of themselves as equals and needed to negotiate with each other. Too much conversation.”
She doesn’t wait for my response, returning to her task.
After a time, she finishes. “I will stand guard for you, then?” She smirks. I notice my kill lays where I left him, undisturbed. The bubbles of blood escaping his lips no more, the leaking of blood from his chest no more, almost dry.
She whispers, “Don’t kill this next one.”
I blink, trying to understand, and then a third goblin bursts in on us. Female this time.
“What have you done?”
Luda places her hands on her hips and smiles. “What does it look like?”
“This is impossible. They are the greatest… the best I have seen… someone will notice their deaths.” Her wavering voice at the end concerns me, yet Luda simply chuckles.
Luda places a hand on her heart. “Aww, did you come to warn us?”
Our new guest flicks her head around to face Luda instead of continuing to gaze at the impossible. “Yes, but I didn’t know what I would do, but I thought I could have done something.”
She flinches when Luda embraces her. I am sure I would have done the same. There is the glee of slaying in Luda’s eyes. “Lord Klar knows how to pick the loyal ones, that is for sure.”
Immediately upon being released, our guest straightens her clothes, even though none requires straightening. “I… I will report to Clan Head Sakvorpa since we are close to Hobgoblin Town. Yes, that is what I will do. Advise her the master assassins are looking to kidnap Duzsia to lure Lord Klar away from his protection. The news should please her.”
Her words are to no one in particular. Maybe she is simply thinking aloud. Turning about and after several steps, she disappears into the long grass.
“There goes a strange one, to be certain,” says Luda with a happy undertone. “Now, what about your prize?”
“If you want, you can search.”
“Good, start digging a hole.”
“A hole?” Then her eyes travel from one corpse to the other. I nod. At least they are small goblins, both.
---MILGA STONE BLOOD THE FIFTH POV
“Report.”
She leaps from her saddle and lands before me, sticking the landing. “We have found their base. As far as we can tell, not a valley in the truest sense, but far enough back from the migration paths to remain safe. They are gathering, Mistress.”
Zoria Oath Keeper tribe, the male mercenaries at least, finally gather in one location all because of a one-word message. A momentous occasion. I pat the drooling jaws of my enormous wolf.
“How many?”
She swallows. More than expected, then. “Three hundred, and still they wait. There are no signs of preparation to leave or even packing supplies for a journey, Mistress.”
They are the enemy of my enemy, yet their gathering will attract attention. How long before the Klugites hear the rumour of Oath Keeper’s finally all in one place? How could they resist the temptation to be rid of them in one last battle?
A smiling Morraga approaches, and I can’t wait for her to report and lighten the mood.
“Greetings, Mistress. We have several young sons of merchants following us. Perhaps they intend to sell to the Oath Keepers or us?”
“Or to the valley the Oath Keepers are heading for,” I quip.
“All likely as the other, Mistress.” She scratches her chin. “Should we not scare them and send them back to Stone Corner?”
Vrozila leans on Morraga’s shoulder and adds, “Some fun, Mistress. What could be the harm in that?”
I sigh. “Haven’t you heard? We aren’t about fun.” I smile at their downcast faces. “More importantly, something could go wrong, and we must be forever cautious.” A warning to Stone Corner would be prudent, at least. “A pigeon. And Vrozila, tomorrow, ride wide and well passed their camp and count the number of southern valleys.”
“Mistress,” she whines.
“Get some rest. You have a long day in front of you.” I scribble a note and return the ink and quill to my backpack. Handing the letter to Morraga, I say, “Send this. We should warn Stone Corner.”
I am alone. Casting my eye over the patrol, they continue making camp, unrolling bedrolls, and erecting tents. No campfire tonight. Staring up at the darkening dusk sky, I wonder. Is the youth Krilzak Quickeyed’s merchants gossip about really the second coming of Lord Farmer Hob or simply an imitation? Or could he be exactly like me?
---GOBLIN CRONE, OATH KEEPER TRIBE POV
I stare at the ashes of the pyre, and I am troubled still. The old crone and her grandson disagreeing to such a degree that killing each other was the result. What didn’t her grandson agree with? The deed? No, impossible. The terms to earn our freedom are generous and obvious if viewed through the eyes of a new Clan Head, especially if his lands were to be held safe from threat.
Betrayal? The grandson made no secret of his desire to wed Nudia, although most of the remaining males had the same dream. By this time, though, she had eyes only for Lord Klar. Hence, the old crone was not upset that Xorbrim had slain her, or at least his wives had. Her death should satisfy me, given my promotion, or better still, my uncontested promotion. Someone needed to rise to lead the tribe when the old crone’s death needed an explanation. That same someone needed to guide and rally the tribe to confront Lord Klar. His shock and dismay were equal, if not more than ours. Acting or innocence? The easier path to follow needs me to accept innocence.
In the end, secrets killed the old crone. If she shared, then her death would have proved useless to any schemer, as others would know and who to suspect. I about-face, and as I expect, my two acolytes await my orders.
“Approach.”
Both climb to their feet and, when an appropriate distance away, bow and once again wait.
“Are all his possessions accounted for?”
“Yes, Crone,” they reply in unison.
“Have the males nominated their three candidates?” I expect them to be on in years, their age, to balance my youth.
“They are still considering.”
They don’t have many to choose from. Maybe they all want to nominate themselves.
“Are all the crone’s possessions accounted for?” I will claim some, but the proper thing is to share several items with her loyal acolytes, so her legacy lives on. I break from my thoughts when I realise neither of them has answered.
“Speak!”
“One set of regalia is missing and an old staff, a worn, gnarled thing, which she used little,” replies one.
“Would these missing items match what she wore when she left the village while in the company of Lord Klar yesterday?”
If the circumstances weren’t so important, their shared realisation would have been comical. How could they not join the dots? Eventually, they both slowly nod.
“Sink your faces into her possessions until you have her scent up your noses and nothing else. Start at the end of the village and at least walk towards Lord Klar’s hill. The Old Crone would have followed that path yesterday, at least. But I expect your noses to lead you elsewhere. Now go but be discrete and sombre. No point celebrating if the very act also draws your death.” I notice them swallow, but they bow and leave me, anyway.
Acting or innocence, Lord Klar, I now wonder. If they find her things where they shouldn’t be, then I suspect acting. If acting, there is no point in revenge. After all, the death of the Old Crone has promoted me. Also, I suspect without the mercenaries, Lord Klar, his wives, and servants would slaughter us. No, I will ask for further concessions. Send the tribe on its way, not as freed slaves but as valuable servants deserving reward.