---LORD TORNGUL HEARTSPLITTER POV
“Your Honour Guard seems rather displeased, husband, even after seeing goblins scrambling left and right as we ambled through their quaint village.”
I stare ahead of us, observing two female goblins wearing white robes.
“Husband? What has your attention?”
I nod towards the ford.
“Durrilsia, please fetch me the two goblins.” I fling an arm out towards the obvious. After all, the horde of goblins working on the hillock are too far away to suggest any of them.
“Yes, Lord,” she replies sharpish. She eyes her two escorts, and they jog off.
“Why the interest in two goblins, husband? Aren’t we trying to beat dusk and surprise Lord Klar?”
I chuckle. “Durrilsia, why do you think I would be interested in them?”
“Lord?” There is a nervous wail in her response. During this brief journey, she has been quick to do as I command, yet venturing her opinion is definitely new, at least to me. I wait.
“They… perhaps they are hunting Lord, using their noses. Chasing a scent on either side of the trail?”
I chuckle again. “Certainly, one plausible explanation, but I will ask them directly.”
While reluctant at first, their resistance immediately melts after Durrilsia’s escorts point towards me. They also share a worrying glance.
“They are afraid, husband.”
Yes, Trela, my dear wife, I think to myself as the two goblins, heads down, drag their feet, trying to delay the inevitable.
They bow before me and need to look up as I remain on my beast, my arms crossed over the saddle horn.
“Explain what you are doing?” A simple question, with no leading excuses or explanations, like seeking the truth from children.
Another exchange of glances, and then the one on the right, speaks, “We are blessing the pathway, Lord. We take a side each and call on our blood to protect and provide safe passage for all who tread on it.”
Inwardly, I am sceptical. I am tempted to break out in uncontrolled laughter, yet under my gaze, they hold their nerve.
“Back to it then. I am certain Lord Klar appreciates your efforts.”
As they hurry back, Durrilsia sidles up to my beast, her eyes never leaving them. “They lie, Lord.”
“They are Lord Klar’s slaves. I will mention their behaviour, and he can act as he wishes.”
Instinct or quick reaction, Durrilsia doesn’t impede my beast as I spur him on and shortly after, we pass by the goblins and wade across the river using the ford. As we circle the hillock searching for the gate, the goblins pause their work and mark our passing in a wave of silence. After a suitable length of time, known only to them, most bow and then resume their labours. They are female goblins, and in only a rare exception, one doesn’t sport a rounding belly—Lord Klar’s mischief.
I order two of my Honour Guard to remain at the gate at the foot of the hillock. My wife and two other Honour Guard escort me towards Lord Klar’s wooden abode atop the hillock. Durrilsia and her two escorts lead the way as we head one way and back the other once we pass through another gateway.
Dismounting, my wife and I tread on a rising ramp that ends at another gateway in a wall, without gates. A couple of impressively equipped female hobgoblins stand guard, yet Durrilsia’s company seems to be all the assurance they need to remain stoic.
Finally, I glance at Durrilsia to check, and her apologetic nod confirms the worst. My wife and I must climb what appears to be a free-standing ladder to reach the inside of Lord Klar’s seat of authority. I take a deep breath near the top and pop my head through the trapdoor. Two young, pretty female hobgoblins scribe at roughhewn desks and chat about numbers. An older third female oversees and either confirms or corrects in a quiet voice, oblivious to my intrusion.
From behind, I hear Lord Klar’s cheerful voice.
“Welcome, Lord Torngul and what brings you to my primitive lodgings?”
I step up the few remaining rungs and then hold out a hand to assist my wife. My Honour Guard remains at the foot of the ladder while Durrilsia and her escort are nowhere to be seen.
With my arm around Trela, I face Lord Klar. His skinny one, Izga, hangs off him like an additional layer of clothing.
“I would be remiss, Lord Klar, if I didn’t report some unusual slave behaviour.” I point towards a window and meet him there. The view across the ford is clear, and the two white-robed goblins now confer, edging towards a forest grove. “They said they were conducting a ritual. Your Beastbane Huntress suggests this is a lie, and in fact, they are hunting for a scent.”
“Lord, shall I?” whispers Izga.
“No.” Lord Klar wraps an arm around her waist. “I believe we have not been as clever as we thought.”
“A plan gone astray?” I ask.
He cracks a warm smile. “A complication, but I expect negotiation instead of blood, although only time will tell.”
Izga reaches up on her toes, and her lips move close to his ear. Lord Klar shakes his head and says, “And then what?”
His female hobgoblin cloak of flesh slithers down and settles. He assuages her disappointment with light kissing. My wife interlocks her fingers in mine. She is leaning on my strength. Fortunately, she doesn’t realise the true dynamic between Lord Klar and I. Yet Izga’s demonstration of devotion clearly proves that, like Duzsia, who admitted her mission could end in her death, another will do the same. While death is painful, they both know they will return to him, and such certainty skews their devotion, I am sure. While he and I have an attachment, this isn’t the same as the deep emotion toward his wives, for which I am thankful. Blind devotion, being a slave to another, is not what I want, and my decision to part ways firms up even more. I will miss my daughters, but we have parted once. I before my daughters, as it should be. Repeating this time and time again will make the loss ordinary, without import, when mourning for those you loved should be painful. Not simply an interruption between periods of life. My stomach turns.
I wait for the two to pause between affections. “The Goblin Deed.” I search for my satchel and then look longingly at my wife. She glances at the trapdoor and the ladder and sighs. “Thank you, dear,” I whisper.
I lean in close to Lord Klar. “Some days ago, I felt the release of Zoria, and I wish for the same release.”
He leans back and examines my face. I am not smiling.
“There are a few questions I could ask, but the most important is why? Why surrender returning?”
Now I crack a warm smile. “I am in love, Lord Klar. What are my chances of finding the same again? My life as Lord is comfortable, with the need to play some political games to avoid untimely death, but I believe Trela and I are up to that challenge. There is the possibility I can extend my life by consuming your blood, not unlike Xorbrim the Undying. My long life will allow you to talk to a living historian on your next return.”
He doesn’t grip the windowsill. His face doesn’t flush bright green. The sole tell, his furrowing brow.
“Agreed,” he says in almost a whisper. “I prefer the willing, not the unwilling, and as you say, there could be a future benefit.” He grips my shoulders, and I hear the scribing stop for a moment. “With me, Lord Torngul and we can partake of some sweet mead and catch up on other things.” The scribing continues as we descend the ladder, meeting my wife at the bottom.
She quirks her head as she hands me my satchel. Lord Klar holds out his hand, and I pass the satchel on.
“I hope not to offend, but your overnight stay will be in the future storehouse. Consider this a luxury, as even now, I will spend my sleep time in a tent.”
I wave my arm at the building behind us. “What of your manor?”
“An illusion for now. The scribes remain there, no others. The bottom floor is still bare soil, so they sleep near where they work.”
---LORD KLAR POV
A late-night chat with Lord Torngul leads to a late morning. Izga wakes me in time to bid Lord Torngul goodbye. Part of our nocturnal exploits involved releasing Lord Torngul’s spirit under the watchful surveillance of Izga. As if on cue, a white-robed goblin crone crosses the ford well after Lord Torngul. Her visit was not unexpected. Her leaning on the older and seldom-used staff of the former Old Crone, though somewhat bold. She flaunts an unmistakable message.
I decide to walk along the river after we exchange greetings, and when she feels we are out of earshot of all others, she decides our chit-chat is at an end.
“As you can see, we found the lost regalia of the Old Crone, the regalia she wore when she accompanied you out of our village. The last time anyone saw the Old Crone alive.”
There wasn’t a single slither of subtly. She would need to improve on that score if she was to age gracefully into being known as the old Crone.
“I could deny everything. After all, I am Lord, and you are my slaves.” I pat the satchel swinging at my hip.
She swallows. “I thought you would kill me…”
“Why? How many know you have found her regalia?” Her head lowers. “You don’t need to answer, as one would be too many. Your disappearance or death would strengthen any story they told, any accusation they made. I am also certain you told many you planned to meet me today. As Lord, I could still bluff my way through, but then I am certain the building, the planting, and the tending would be functionary because of doubt, not as it is now energised by the promise of freedom.”
I now wait for her claim.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“I will ensure my tribe knows nothing of this unfortunate event, although I have accomplices who will need gifts to remain silent.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Gifts or bribes?”
“The words mean the same thing to goblins. Lord.”
My joyful chuckle releases the tension between us. “Name your gifts.”
“Weapons, Lord. Our mercenaries have long complained about how they are denied the use of the finest steel weapons, and if we are to drag Rexa down, they will allow us to be at least on equal terms.”
I stare out towards the river; the uneven flow of the water catches the sunlight. Light and shadow play side by side, changing from light to shadow and shadow to light as the water flows. Goblins denied fine steel weapons. Why?
“Can you trust these mercenaries of yours?” She is behind me. I am deliberately exposing my back to her, and I hope even her young, uncomplicated mind will take note and appreciate my purposeful vulnerability.
“They are Oath Keepers.”
I chuckle. Then glance over my shoulder to catch her indignant look, which transforms briefly into wrath before smoothing out. “When was the last time you or the old crone met or visited their camp, not just meeting the occasional leader in the dead of night?”
“How is that important? Are you trying to doubt us, our cause? We are all Oath Keepers. That is not only who we are but also what we are, heart, blood, and bone.”
I swivel about, advance on her, and, when her eyes open wide, grab her shoulders. “They are mercenaries who have fought many battles for others. Many have lost battle companions and never known a home. Most would not know this secret life you live except as youths. Once of age and pushed out to join the mercenaries, they would know only harsh reality. Killing and death change anyone.”
“They are Oath Keepers. What do you think the words mean? They keep their oaths, and they will. When reunited with them, they will lead us from this valley to victory over Rexa and her Klugites.”
Her eyes water. Her cheeks flush dark green. Such passion, such belief. They are two separate communities, in essence. They have been this way for tens of years, two hundred years? The valley Oath Keepers send off their sons to join the mercenaries and rarely see them again. Do these sons feel privileged or abandoned? How do the mercenaries treat their recruits?
“You would know more than I.” I wipe her eyes before any tears fall. “Weapons, though, are beyond me. We have several sets of steel weapons and armour won from an ambush, and I am reluctant to give them up. In fact, if I could purchase bronze or iron weapons and armour, I would do so for my fighters, but alas, leather is the best they have for armour and a mixture of various weapons ranging from spears to bows.”
“Deal,” she says, and I quirk my head. “The Hungry Clan crop is due for harvest, and rumour, well, not rumour, our spies have estimated the bushels of grain. Your gamble will well reward you as there aren’t enough buildings to hide all the harvest.”
“What if Clan Head Zinmog sneaks out the grain, using the wagons of The Runner Clan?”
“Everyone would know. Lord Torngul will find out, and The Runner Clan will be disgraced and thrown down. I am certain other Clans would want to inherit some or all of The Runner Clan’s duties, and Lord Torngul could order that.”
If I am to leave Lord Torngul to live out his life, I need to know the extent of his power and, possibly, this goblin crone will be able to explain. “What if The Runner Clan says no?”
Her face blanks. “No? To what?”
“Being thrown down? They defy Lord Torngul. After all, he has no soldiers of his own. How does he enforce his will?”
She licks her lips. “The other Clans would enforce his will. Once done, they will expect a reward equal to their support, and Lord Torngul will be able to grant that since an entire Clan’s wealth is now, like a carcass, there to be distributed.”
“This is a win-win for you as not only is a Clan destroyed, but depending on the duration, many hobgoblins will die as well.”
She leans on her staff, and an idle foot draws a circle in the river sand. “That would not be a bad thing, Lord.” She looks up. “While in the main female hobgoblins will die, some males will also perish, and that is the key to this valley and many others.”
I realise at that moment their true dream. They wish to birth hobgoblins themselves; they believe these will be loyal Oath Keeper hobgoblins. All other hobgoblins are only fit to be slain. A mercenary army of Oath Keeper hobgoblins? They will need to wait a few years, but where? Not this valley. Will the existing Oath Keeper mercenaries accept their bigger brothers to forge a combined goblin and hobgoblin army? Over time, the Oath Keeper hobgoblins will grow leaders who will question following the orders of the smaller goblins, regardless of their wisdom, won’t they? Years, I remind myself. My priority is for the pregnant Oath Keeper goblins to leave this valley, doing the least harm possible.
“What of my fledgling Clan?”
She takes a step back, realising I suppose she didn’t make any distinctions. I let slip a laugh.
“I doubt Lord Torngul will ask your Clan to assist. You are too weak. Farmers and hunters, with warriors without proper armour and weapons.” She taps her chin with a finger. “You could exchange grain for whatever Clan Ironmonger could provide?”
They are more noted for the supply of farming and mining tools, yet a scythe, axe or pick would, in certain circumstances, be better than a spear. How difficult would it be for them to cast iron spear and arrow points? The proper weapon smiths, though, make a living in Hobgoblin Town. They purchase the ingots of iron from the Clan and craft iron weapons and armour, which Clan Quickeyed then purchase to carry out of the valley to sell, trade or barter in other valleys. It all sounds too simple, yet The Eater Clan must figure in their somehow, as they service Hobgoblin Town and must have a say in what happens to any crafted goods or is the Clan supposed to be subservient to Lord Torngul like all the others? I will gladly leave this mystery to Lord Torngul.
---REXA, HIGH PRIESTESS OF KLUG POV
Through cloudy vision, I witness my Priestess’ of Klug kneel in solemn vigil around the edge of my grand bed. They are more like vultures waiting for my final rasping breath. One will ascend to High Priestess using a method I dictated only several days prior at the insistence of the Holy Scribe. My denial of my near future death was foolish. What would his religion become with no clear successor? I charged her and her small click of followers with recording the history of the Great Religion and their scrawls on dusty scrolls; I accept, will outlive me. While a vanity, I now treasure the tapestries celebrating our victories and the portraits of my sons, Klugrath and Kluggoth. There are other portraits, of course, yet my sons carried Lord Klug’s teachings before them, with sword and fire if necessary.
Will the worship of Lord Klug outlive my death? I fear only now, on my deathbed, that my iron grip on his religion has been at odds with this aim. Too late. All now depends on my successor.
Dying is so tedious, yet after two hundred years, a lifetime beyond everyday possibility, his blood no longer invigorates me. With no one to trust but myself, my hidden cache of blood will be my secret in death as my failing legs, even if his blood renewed me, could no longer carry me in silence to the secret grotto to sip.
One last rasping breath, and as if they are in time with my breathing, I hear them exhale as I leave my body. I maintain a certain slither of awareness and catch their gasps of shock as my body powders under the weight of my fine clothes and too-long life. An outline of where I once was, diminishes in size as I ascend until I see, hear, smell, touch, and taste nothing more. Blackness surrounds me and welcomes me. Should I be afraid? What is after death?
Around me, others ascend. I sense them as I have no eyes to see, and we are all joining the many—a stream of spirits flowing by this world. The attraction is absolute. Why must I join them? I am a High Priestess of Klug; this is not my future. My ascent slows. I refuse to ascend and make to look back, a yearning only as I have no eyes. My rise is minimal, other spirits flow past me, and some feel my presence and question. Others strive forward like they are supposed to.
I wonder?
I reach out, searching. A Priestess of Klug attracts my attention, and I don’t know how. She must be performing the spirit ceremony in a valley below and, as taught, probably knee-deep in water. Is this why? Without his blood, she is binding a servant by belief only to the worship of Lord Klug. Somehow, I know this. No, I perceive this. Then like a wave of warmth, his touch, many years ago from his visitation, switches my perspective. Am I now like Lord Klug? Was his spirit searching for another existence, another life to live? Is that the power he now grants me? I would bellow and fall over in laughter if I could. For years I have been resisting death, hanging on, and in the final years living a miserable existence. Only now, after death, do I realise the full power of his worship, the full benefit of believing in Lord Klug. Not only spirit enslavement but spirit return.
No more fear, no more begging in uncertainty. I am the hunter and examine those below me, countless numbers of the living offer no connection. Others, worshippers of Lord Klug, welcome me, yet I can’t replace them, subvert the ownership of their flesh, their living body. I sense this happened to Lord Klug, the strongest of his worshippers; the High Priestess, me, drew him, yet I wouldn’t surrender my life to him even if I could and knew how. His worshippers do likewise to me, his former High Priestess.
Is this the end? Was this his end? My faith falters for an instant, and I feel myself ascend. No! There must be another way. My perception grows. This isn’t vision as with eyes. This is sensing spiritual strength. Those living below me now glow. Some have almost no radiance, others hold an intense glow, and some shine brightest. There are crowds of glowing and sizeable areas of nothing. Are some hidden from my perception? The unfaithful or lesser beings? As I hover in confusion, I witness a curious aberration. A glow which, like a torch plunged into a bucket of water, extinguishes instantly.
Under my continued use, my perception improves, and the spirits take on, or I, at last, perceive them glowing in various hues. While observing, the glows diminish, and I need to concentrate to continue my study. I silent scream as I realise why they decrease. I am ascending. No, I scream in defiance, yet the tug is steady and unwavering. Have I wasted this interlude between death and the spirit stream? Is my time up? I need to reach out and conquer a body of flesh. Where? Emerald-yellow? During Lord Klug’s visitation, I recall his spirit was emerald-yellow. As are all Klugites, I instantly realise. Do I now descend upon a glow after being extinguished? How? Once extinguished, they escape my perception.
Ignoring my gradual withdrawal, I study. When their diminishing glow is almost nothing, when the glow is the tiniest of sparks, I dive towards my possible salvation, my promise of an anchor. This exertion of my willpower defeats the steady drag with ease. Amazing. Floating about aimlessly, and I am subject to the spirit stream, with purpose, I control my fate.
My spirit binds to the body I target with ease, my spirit who worships Lord Klug with the flesh of a former worshipper. I try to suck in a natural breath and taste the black soot of blood instead. This dead former worshipper of Lord Klug doesn’t respond. A male. An adult. Rain spatters on my face. I try to take another breath and fail. Suffocation. Slow and painful death assaults me in contrast to my peaceful first death. Then my spirit rises rapidly. I discard all thoughts about what happened; I need another target.
There are only those who glow. I must target the weakest my perception can locate. Yet which one? Then, as a herd, they move off with purpose. Behind their departure, several specks of darkness flicker. I study the anomaly, and the glow of all of them slowly flourishes at the same pace and then, in an instant, their respective glows burst forth. The strength of their individual glow is weaker than any other I have measured with my perception. They are like the faint embers of a campfire, yet I suspect they only require wood to grow into a bright flame.
My rise is almost complete, and with desperation, I randomly pick one some distance away from the others and descend with purpose. My descent is slow, the tug of the spirit stream clawing at my spirit. A stark reality hits me. This is my slimmest of second chances. I cling to my faith in Lord Klug. By his grace, I have this chance. Belief in him makes all things possible.
My spirit joins to the flesh that I single out and immediately wrestles with the neophyte spirit within. At a loss to know how to win, I exert my will on the spirit and perform the possession ceremony. I don’t need to drown the body to separate the spirit from the body. I don’t need Lord Klar’s blood to establish a bridge between me and my subject to tithe a slither of the spirit on acceptance. My will and belief overpower this budding spirit like a big fish eating a small fish, and I am instantly in darkness, yet warm. Is this life? The draw of the spirit stream is no more, my spirit perception subdued, yet not extinguished. Exercising my perception like I did when a spirit I seek outwards…
My new floating body is inside another. The body is female, and her spirit glows with a gentle emerald-orange. Not of Lord Klug? I expand my perception beyond that of my host. Nothing.
Real-time passes slowly as I float inside my host. At some point, my hearing and sight return to me, yet apart from thumping, humming, and vibrations, my hearing is disappointing. My sight notices light and dark and nothing else. I eventually sense my arms and legs, my hands, and feet. With them, I kick. I punch. My prison is flexible, bending instead of breaking under my feeble efforts. These taunts amuse me as I pass the time.
I float no more. The fluid no longer surrounds me! My prison forces me into a new position. Do I resist? No. This is the natural way of things. The presence of several spirits close in on me. None are emerald-yellow. All are black-red. What does that mean? No Klugites are nearby? Why?
The pressure on my body is immense, the squeezing intolerable! Don’t they know who they are torturing? Then there is light and a sting of pain on my soggy bottom. I hold back my scream and receive another slap for my efforts and howl this time. Such is the pain. Then I swear revenge. Hunger gnaws at my stomach, and while trying to pronounce the words of complaint, I hear howling, instead. Then an enticing scent attracts my nose, and with little thought of anything else, I nuzzle forward in a frenzy. My lips find and suck on a fountain of nourishment. As I suckle like a pig, I accept I am a newborn baby as my eyes try to make out my mother’s face. My fate, until adulthood, will be tied to that of my non-Klugite mother. I am amongst non-worshippers.