---NARO, PRIESTESS OF KLUG.
The Holy Scribe perches over her high desk in one corner of High Priestess Rexa’s plain functional bed chamber. Her followers especially carved the massive room out of stone and set it deep into the cliff face. Beyond the foot of the grand bed, the last resting place of our High Priestess, waits the three heirs apparent, on one knee, heads in a solemn bow. The three are in an exclusive club, all serving in the High Temple, all only answerable to the High Priestess. Then on each side of the bed are another three. I am one of those six. We are the Voter members of the Circle of Ascension and must cast a secret vote for one of the three. If there is a tie, the Holy Scribe will break the deadlock.
With as much care as I can, I pat and confirm the vial of Lord Klar’s pure blood is still within the folds of my robe. The High Priestess’ rasping breaths are the only noise. Then a plop. Ten sets of eyes, including mine, turn on the Washing Servant. She straightens, hands empty. None present wishes to break the silence. On the High Priestess’ final breath, the washing of her body will begin as per her wishes. The Circle of Ascension must use that time to cast their votes. The thought being Rexa’s dead-eyed gaze will lend us her wisdom.
Her hand flickers. This is my chance, and I dash forward and grasp High Priestess Rexa’s spotted and thin skeletal hand in my own. I set about pricking the skin of the High Priestess with the well-crafted protrusion of the silver ring I wear for the occasion. They all release a breath in unison, possibly even the High Priestess. Her last breath? I have broken decorum, yet not tradition, because this is the first time a High Priestess of Lord Farmer Hob, Lord Klug, has laid on her deathbed.
“Voter Naro, return to your vigil.”
I am uncertain of which of the three, but I am certain the whisper came from the foot of the grand bed. Ignoring the instruction, I ensure I have made a sufficient bloody mess of the High Priestess’ hand and mine.
“Voter Naro, you reach above yourself. You are only an Oath Keeper representative, to vote and no more.” She believes her low hissing growl will bring me to heel! Fool. I am playing for keeps.
Palming the vial of Lord Klug’s blood, I mix his with the High Priestess’ to ensure I have volume, but also to ensure the witnesses believe her blood is the source, the reason, and the explanation for my future miracle.
I hold my black bloody hand up and grab the Voter to my left around the throat and lift, dragging her towards the Washing Servant and the bath. Behind me, multiple gasps of shock sound. The tub’s edge smacks into her rump, and she topples backward into the bath headfirst. Her legs in the air flail about. Her hands grab at my arm and hand around her throat. I hold my bloody hand towards the other Priestesses’ climbing to their feet, now shaking the shock of my action from their minds. They crowd toward me as I take the drowned Priestess from the bathwater and perch her on its edge. I breathe life back into her while dragging my bloody hand down her face.
She spits out the water in her lungs, and with wide eyes, she sees only me.
“Service or death?”
“Service,” she whispers. I drag her to standing, and the other Priestesses take a step back. The Holy Scribe, I note, is busy scratching away on her parchment, sneaking looks now and again.
I hand her a dagger. “Kill yourself.”
Their sharp intake of breath all around me is music to my ears. None, not even High Priestess Rexa, could force a subject to take their own life. Many chose death instead of serving, but this situation is different. She chose service.
There is a struggle behind her eyes, yet her hand wraps around the dagger.
“Obey,” I command her.
The confusion in her eyes clears, and all resistance fades. In the blink of an eye, only the handle of the dagger sticks out of her chest. The blade is deep in her flesh, and I must support her weight until I realise she is a corpse and allow her to free fall with a thump.
“High Priestess Rexa, with a flick of her hand, called me to her side. She offered me her blood. Using her blood, I spirit-bound this one.” I flick my bloody hand towards the corpse. “Commanded her to take her own life. By the demonstration of this power, I claim the right and privilege of being the High Priestess of Lord Klug!”
One of the three charges towards me, all claws. I meet her charge with a second dagger and plunge the blade between her breasts as her hands wrap around my throat. Her eyes fly open, her hands fall from my throat, and she feebly grabs at the dagger protruding from her chest as she falls to the ground. I reach for my first dagger and wait.
“All prostrate themselves before Naro, High Priestess of Lord Klug,” says a firm voice behind them. They look over their shoulders towards the Holy Scribe and then, with heads down, face me. They slowly fight their natures, trying to accept the new order, and with begrudging acceptance, lie prostrate. Foreheads on the stone floor, hands stretched forward and flat beyond their heads. I grab the second dagger, and while they are all at my mercy, I plunge a dagger into the back of the heads of the last two heirs apparent. They both squeak and then silence. The four faces of the remaining voters remain flat on the stone.
“High Priestess,” calls a high, timid voice.
“Yes,” I reply, unable to suppress my satisfaction from reaching my voice.
“I… I can’t wash the High Priestess Rexa’s corpse. She is… she is dust.”
Of course, you live by consuming Lord Klug’s blood for two hundred years; you only delay the inevitable. Zoria Oath Keeper knew of some properties of Lord Klug’s blood. She observed Rexa’s forever youth, and, of course, she experimented with her son, ensuring he sipped Lord Klug’s blood from birth. She also outlined instructions for my rise, a castoff of no important lineage, simply a babe fed on Lord Klug’s blood from birth, one hundred and eighty years after the founding of the High Temple to Lord Klug. The number of years was significant in more ways than one as they matched the number of years our prisoner lived (he shortly after returned in a new body) and allowed me to reach adulthood before High Priestess Rexa expired. How did Zoria Oath Keeper know? Maybe she didn’t. Perhaps one event triggered another? The prisoner’s death triggered my capture and feeding early enough to provide sufficient years for me to prepare for Rexa’s death and usurp the succession process. I don’t doubt that they will usurp my succession similarly. Is this Zoria Oath Keeper’s ultimate revenge on Rexa? Or everyone, really, since I now command the largest organisation known and swear to keep my oath to Zoria Oath Keeper, even if this is to the detriment of Lord Klug.
---LORD KLAR POV
I pace back and forth, forth, and back. The three scribes keep their heads down, studying the piles of parchments on their tables. Busy scribing or busy avoiding my scowl? For the third day in a row, the gentle pita-patter of rain drums on the roof of my modest manor. The first day and night, I spent with my wives exploring every facet of debauchery. The second day and night likewise, although all except Izga couldn’t now stand, let alone walk confidently. This morning they shook their heads at me, and now I find myself here, avoiding what I should have been attending to for the past month. Erm, maybe two months.
“All right.”
“All right? Lord?” asks Solgia.
I face the former lame scribe as her head rises from her work.
“What have you to tell me? A single-word report first and then perhaps the details.”
“Surplus.”
I wave a hand, signalling her to continue while I stroll towards the window, the pushed-out shutter doing enough to ward off the rain, which is falling straight down. No wind, let alone a breeze, probably means the rain will stay around for a time.
“The goblins have exceeded their quota these past seven days, and the village housing the hobgoblins is eighty percent complete, including two large granaries. One is full of grain, generously and enthusiastically provided by Clan Hungry.”
I swivel about and raise an eyebrow. “Humour?”
“Why not, Lord? Considering the complaining and multiple excuses why the Clan Head couldn’t deliver the due grain and, in the end, there wasn’t anywhere else to store the surplus. The overflowing granaries of Hobgoblin Town being the deciding factor.”
“We are fortunate that the Oath Keeper goblins somehow predicted the harvest…”
“Yes, Lord. They built two granaries in the hobgoblin village, two near the manor and two across the river in the goblin village. Although have you factored in our late planting? This rain, for example?”
I lean on the windowsill and look out through the rain. The sprinkling of drops on the flowing river water is such a peaceful and calming scene. “The goblins have near fulfilled their obligations, haven’t they?”
Shifting and sorting through parchment breaks through the sound of falling rain. Then a low whisper, “Here!”
“Lord, the goblins owe two weeks of work, originally four, which you agreed to reduce, given their progress,” Solgia reports.
What madness? I curse myself for my generosity. Weather permitting, two weeks would probably see the building of another two granaries.
“Lord?”
“Which one are you?” I ask.
A small giggle. “Tigliga, Lord.”
I wave a hand over my shoulder for her to continue, as I don’t want to interrupt my view.
“Lord, a work crew of hobgoblins, could complete the cottages in hobgoblin village while the last two weeks of the goblin’s obligations could build at least two, possibly three, granaries based on their previous efforts.”
“Previous efforts?”
There is a silence, which eventually causes me to turn about. I lean back on the windowsill and cross my arms.
“I…” Tigliga says and stutters.
A chair scrapes back, and Solgia stands, waving the older but shorter of the two sisters to silence. “I took it upon myself to ensure Shiliga and Tigliga took notes on building progress, since the goblins had an obligation to meet. Without a written record, how would our Lord know if the goblins had completed their obligation or not?” Her head remains level. I grunt. “When you reduced their obligation by two weeks, if you had asked, we would have been able to tell you what building work couldn’t be completed.” Her face flushes green. “Although, in this case, Lord, your gut feeling was close enough. The goblins, in essence, were two weeks ahead of their obligations.”
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“My gut was correct then. Is what you are saying?”
“Yes, Lord. But we have the written records as proof if you wish to review them.”
I inwardly smile while outwardly returning to the business at hand. The building of granaries is a skill we need. “Take a note. The goblins can build one granary while a hobgoblin crew assists and observes. The second granary, the hobgoblin crew, can build under the supervisor of the goblins, which should take longer but protect our future. Much in the same way that the hobgoblin crews can build cottages and fortifications.”
I wait for the scribing to stop.
“What other records have you kept for my benefit?”
All three faces glow a gentle green. The two sisters glance at my chief scribe. I suppose I should name her. She clears her throat and shuffles several loose pieces of parchment on her desk.
“We have records of the number of days your soldier hobgoblins have trained for. An assessment of individual progress for each. The exact number of seeds spread across the prepared farmland. An estimate of the harvest is based on the strike rate of the seed. The number of days your wives have worked on your behalf. The number and size of beasts hunted, and several other records.”
Shiliga stares up at Solgia. “What about their absences?”
“What?” I ask. “Absences? Explain.”
I catch Solgia reshuffling her papers, eyes down, and to my surprise, she leans against her table for support. “Lord, it probably isn’t important. We only recorded the absences because we recorded other details, and the record would seem incomplete otherwise.”
“Let me be the judge. Report on absences. Now!”
---
“A moment?” mumbles Gorgrin as he eyes the rain.
I stand before his open cottage door, holding a makeshift cured deer skin over my head as an inadequate raincoat. I take a step back. My Blood Oath follower is bare-chested, bootless, and wearing leather pants. Towards the back of his cottage, I catch a movement. Does he have company?
He goes to step out, and I hold up a hand. “Boots, shirt, and your sword. I will wait for you in the training yard.”
Without waiting for a response, I trudge off, my boots squelching through the water-soaked ground. The training yard is a recent addition, with wooden posts and archery targets. The former is helpful to tie beasts to, and the latter is useful as shields if desperate. I flick the deerskin and hang it on a peg in the nearest post of the lean-to. The hobgoblin building crew practised by building different things here and there. The lean-to over the wooden training posts, while met with some doubt at the time, has proven convenient today. They constructed an exceptionally high roof to allow overhead sword swings and positioned it so archers could release from cover at the targets set fifty paces away.
“Lord?”
I heard him approach, of course. I swivel about and practice swinging my sword. He needs to step back, yet he doesn’t draw his sword. His eyes open slightly, but his face is otherwise neutral.
“Tell me again about Izga’s prisoners, the one on the stretcher, and the others. What became of them?”
He takes a knee and lays his sword before him. “The assassin and Zinmog’s twin daughters are dead, Lord. This includes two wild ones who assisted me.”
I rock back on heels. Immediate honesty, no evasion. I guess he reads my shock.
“Lord, I am your sworn Blood Oath follower. You ask, and I will answer truthfully. I tie my fate to yours.”
“Why are they dead?” I manage to ask after a long silence.
“They witnessed something none of us should have. I suspect your disposal of Xorbrim, his daughters, and perhaps even your concubine Briksia, given no one has seen her since then.”
The patter of the rain seems to intensify.
“What did you do with their bodies?”
“Their bodies, the stretcher, and every scrap of their gear, including trinkets, jewellery, and coins, are at the bottom of the hobgoblin village latrine trench. I only left with what I had. No loose ends and no mistakes. I considered the importance of the twin daughters to your plans, but weighed those up against the possibility of goblin unrest. I made a choice and now await your judgement.”
I rest the blade of my sword on my shoulder and pace before him. “Do you know how I found out?”
He shakes his head.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He frowns for a moment only. “If I told you, you may have reacted without thought and revealed to others about their fate.” He smirks. “I wondered if you may have spontaneously taken my head at the same time.” His face becomes grim. “Not telling you wouldn’t change anything unless you had specific plans for the twins. Given Clan Head Zinmog wanted one twin to murder the other and, failing that, the assassins to slay both, their deaths wouldn’t be if but when. Hence, I concluded their loss would be as good as nothing compared to the breaking of your secret.”
“The scribes,” I offer. He quirks his head to one side. “They noted your absence on the day. In particular, you didn’t talk to Klaria and Thalgora for as long as you needed to avoid entering the hobgoblin village before I did.”
“Scribes,” he mumbles and shakes his head.
“Rise, Gorgrin sworn Blood Oath Follower of Lord Klar.” He climbs to his feet. “Apologise on my behalf to whomever you keep company with.”
“There is no need, Lord. She knows who I serve.”
---
“You choose an unusual day to check on my sword skill, husband.”
She balances from one foot to the other with only a slight grimace. Her recovery from my pounding was excellent, which means I could have enjoyed myself longer…
“Why are you not supervising the planting as I commanded?”
Her sword almost escapes her grip. Nanorobot-enhanced reflexes save her from the fumble. They don’t disguise the surprise.
She straightens and swallows, tossing her head to regain her composure. “Thalgora and I thought it best, given her condition. She didn’t feel comfortable swinging a sword and showing others how with a large belly in the way. This arrangement worked out well, Lord. She could still contribute, and at her suggestion, I could learn to wield a sword and shield under Zergoa or Voria’s instruction. I have learnt so much, Lord. Drilling your soldiers, practising the stances, fitness, erm, practice one-on-one combat, the confusion of melee and the order of set positioning on the field…”
I hold up a hand to stop her from talking. Well prattling. I air-swing my sword and then tap hers. We face off.
She swings high, and I parry and try to flick her sword from her grip as I do. Her grip is flexible and handles my cheeky attempt with ease.
“Who were you talking to when alone in the field?” I lunge and smack her sword sideways. She needs to follow her sword to keep her weapon in hand.
“Field, husband?”
“The one where you examined the soil often, while other fields didn’t need any examination.” Our swords meet with a clang.
“Ah,” she says, or did she exert herself as she strikes down from on high?
“Well? I am waiting for an answer.”
“That field was well away from the river, and the irrigation was poor, or so I believed, husband.”
We dance around each other, our swords jabbing and swinging, and she parries with the weight of her body behind her.
“What of the time spent with the visiting Runner Clan and their wagons?” I dodge her sword, step forward, slap her cheek, and then retreat.
Shaking her head, she takes a backward step and hefts her sword. “Husband, they are from Hobgoblin Town. I asked them about my family.”
“What news do they tell you?”
“Lord?”
“What is the latest news from your family? Simple question, isn’t it?”
She stares at me, her eyes tearing. She drops to her knees and flings her sword away. “Husband, I can’t play this game any longer.”
“The swordplay?”
She snaps, “The swordplay, the wordplay, the accusations. All of it! Who has spoken against me such that you doubt my loyalty? My loyalty?” She scrambles forward on her knees and embraces my thigh. “You are Lord Klug, are you not?” she whispers. “Who could be more important to me?”
I crouch and launch my hand at her throat. “Why aren’t you supervising the planting, as I commanded?”
“Thalgora is going to die in childbirth,” she sobs. “Your first wife said she couldn’t train your recruits, and I needed to learn sword and shield so I wouldn’t be a burden to you. She thought swapping would be easier. We didn’t think we needed to say anything to you. Thalgora asked. I agreed. The blame is mine for accepting, husband.” Her tearing eyes find mine.
I struggle to maintain my composure throughout her response. But could Thalgora’s fate be true? I need to focus. Either Klugak’s daughter walks away from the training yard or stays as a corpse after I release her spirit.
“The waggoneers?”
She wipes the tears from her eyes. “I… I am not Klugak’s daughter. The midwife was in the pay of Clan Head Durlarg, and she took away his actual daughter at birth and death. Stillborn, they told me to convince me when I was old enough. They did Klugak’s family a favour, they said. She substituted me, of course. My mother knew. How could she not? I was days old by then, and a mother knows the difference. She told no one, and neither did I.” She hitches her chest.
“And?” I growl, using a gentle squeeze and release to remind her of my displeasure.
“He told me of my blood, my lineage, how I would bring the worship of Klug to this valley. He planned to marry me to Lord Torngul when the time was right. You provided a near enough benefit, close enough to Lord Torngul so I could spy and endear myself to him. Once Clan Head Durlarg had you assassinated, I was to make a move on Lord Torngul as the heartbroken widow. He was angry at me because the timing was all wrong, and we are no longer in Lord Torngul’s Manor, but I can at least report on your progress, was his thought.” She climbs up my body, her fingers clawing at my clothes. My grip on her neck keeps her in place. “Please, husband.” I relax my grasp, and clinging to me, she climbs. Her hot breath is shortly after on my neck. “I know your truth, Lord Klug. I belong to no other. Clan Head Durlarg wants to depose Lord Torngul and invite the Klugites to the valley. My conversations have only one aim, husband. I am trying to find information that will allow Lord Torngul to act first, but this is difficult as I am the spy, and they dismiss my questions. If I push harder, I am certain they will suspect my loyalty.”
From his slumber, my inner Hob erupts. My wife, Klaria, is hard up against a post of the lean-to, my left hand around her throat and my right-hand fumbling to free her loincloth. My consciousness missed our repositioning and the dropping of her leather pants.
“Yes, husband, I am yours. I will always be yours.” With feeble movements, her hands try to assist. I realise then I need to force my inner Hob to release her throat enough so she can breathe. She takes a deep breath, and then her hands loosen my pants.
“You will find out how they contact the Klugites or where they are. Which valley? How far from this valley?”
“Yes, husband, yes, anything. I should have come to you first, but I thought I could find out everything and then tell you.” She grunts as my loins savage hers. “I now know my place, my husband, my Lord, my master.”
---
I enter the cottage, scan the main room, and snap at them all to leave. Stepping forward, I draw back a curtain of linen cloth to expose the bed, which should be there. On the bed is Thalgora, a naked Thalgora. Her head slowly falls sideways to look at me.
“Husband?” She tries to roll on her side. I assume to stand. I push her back. Her belly is huge, round, and tight. Her skin is pale green. Did the rapid growth outstrip the pigmentation? I now know why she has been absent these past weeks.
“How long?”
“Soon.” Tears roll down her cheeks. Usually, they would be joyful tears for a soon-to-be mother. I now know the truth.
“You are early?”
She shifts as best she can on the bed, waving away my arms as I attempt to help. “Yes, husband, early. They are keen to see their father.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “They?”
She returns a sad smile, which transforms into an unconvincing wide smile. “Three males, I am sure.”
In my chit-chat with Gorgrin, he explained the rareness of twins. Thalgora is carrying triplets. Her fate becomes clearer, given Klaria’s statement. Triplets are a death sentence for the mother. I could spirit bind her, although would she revive in her condition?
Her hand grips mine, and she screams. Sweat pops out of her forehead as she grins her teeth. I lean over her. My strong and confident Thalgora lies helpless. Her eyes betray her fear. Grabbing at both of her hands, I kiss her forehead as a crowd joins us. Some of the help scatter the table and chairs in the cottage to the corners. Next, the bed under Thalgora moves to the middle of the cottage, and I simply act as an escort. The crackling and warmth of fire fill the cottage.
Managing a glance, there is a mixture of attendants. A goblin, a wild one and another I have never seen before. She looks me in the eye while I stare at her.
“Lord Torngul, Lord has sent me. I have delivered many babies, including several multiple births. I will do my best.”
I should ask if her best is for the mother and children or just the children. But I am afraid of the answer because I know the realities of this crappy world. Thalgora is birthing three males, and they are prizes beyond the worth of their mother every day of the week.
---
The midwife fishes the last babe out of Thalgora’s dying womb. I congratulate my first wife before she takes her last breath. She dies as he is born.
“Out!” I shout. “All of you be gone!” I lean over and kiss my wife’s dead lips as the last of them closes the door with a bang. I breathe for her. One, two, three, breath. One, two, three, breath. I jab my thumb and bleed into her mouth. One, two, three, breath. More blood, more air.