---DUZSIA, THE RELENTLESS, CONCUBINE OF LORD KLAR POV

“Are any of them still alive?” I quip.

I glance at Vorlora in time to see her fist relaxing. “Yes, Mistress, your apprentice has learnt since the first loss.”

“Loss? I would suggest the bird is happily free of us and now roosting in comfort in Hobgoblin Town without a message and confusing everyone, including Lord Torngul.”

“Yes, Mistress.” She casts her eyes down briefly. “Do you want me to fetch one? You have a message to send?”

I edge forward once again and peek over the rise. The scent of wet wolf fur hits my nose. Fortunately, the direction of the breeze favours us, allowing me to view the camp of ten goblins and their wolf mounts encamping. There is always one who stands out, which there is now. My concern is that the other nine aren’t much below their leader regarding swagger, weapons handling, armour, and mount care. Trained and purposeful warriors, I conclude.

While I need haste, I need stealth more, and my lizard crawl retreat is cautious, yet when out of their sight, I grab Vorlora by the upper arm and run towards our cold camp. She knows this is a sign to agree in silence. I will answer her questions when I believe I can.

---

I clear the cutting of foliage and step through, wait for Vorlora, and then replace the greenery. The hide will probably remain hidden if they chase us. Someone tracking, though, wouldn’t long be deceived.

“Go to the camp and begin packing. Luda will help you when you tell her I am keeping watch. We must be away from here as soon as possible.”

Vorlora nods and dashes down a narrow cross-direction game trail while I peer through the bush. Shortly after, way too soon, I hear Vorlora’s footfalls behind me.

“Mistress… Luda isn’t in the camp.”

I am in two minds. Do I continue to watch the trail or confront Vorlora? With disagreeable control, I keep my eyes on watch. “What do you mean Luda isn’t in the camp?” I try to keep my tone level. I fail.

“She isn’t there.” Her voice rises to a squeak.

“It can’t be? Can it? Surely, she wouldn’t have…”

“Mistress?”

“We ran because I lost sight of one of the ten. I was certain they sent out a scout to check the surroundings using the last of the day’s light.”

I hear her draw her sword and push forward next to me. “If not that, then what?”

“Look, tell me what you see.”

Her head nestles deep into the foliage and then flees backwards, her eyes meeting mine. “Luda…”

“Yes, with some company.”

I shift the foliage as Luda and her prisoner approach, replacing it once they pass by.

“Quick, watch,” I say to Vorlora as I storm after Luda.

I notice the blindfold across the prisoner’s eyes and take a breath. Not perfect, yet better than nothing. Luda adds leather bindings to the warrior goblin’s legs. Her armour is otherwise hard-boiled and shaped leather. Luda throws me her sword. The shine suggests her sword and our swords share the same weapon-smith.

Luda’s wide, shit-eating grin is almost too much to endure. Thankfully, she wants to boast as well.

“There is always the one who needs to do their business in private. It took a long wait, but finally…” She half bows and sweeps her arm towards her triumph.

This isn’t right…

Vorlora’s footfalls aren’t even pretending stealth as she joins us in a rush. “Company,” she hisses.

As I draw my sword, I throw Luda the opposite of a shit-eating grin.

“We wish to talk. No blood needs to be spilt today.”

“How many Vorlora?”

She gulps. “All of them, their wolves have our scent, I suspect.”

“Sheath weapons. Vorlora, no heroics. Meet and invite our guests to join us.” Luda quits her pacing and cranes her head around to face me. “We still have some wine, don’t we?” Her eyes flash in recognition, and she reaches into one of our many backpacks.

“How many can we expect?”

Our prisoner’s lips widen in a pleasant smile. “Three. We are completely safe here. The others will shift our camp from its current poor location and patrol.”

I remove her blindfold. My jaw drops, and I need to look twice to be sure. She cocks her head. “What?” she asks. I shake my head and reach down to untie her legs and hands. She rubs her wrists and extends one hand towards me. For a moment, I am at a loss. I wake up and hand back her sword.

Luda returns with a bottle of wine and several cups. Then a crash draws our guest and my attention. The bottle of wine possibly found the only embedded stone in the area and now lay in pieces, wine sinking into the dry soil.

Luda hands off the cups to me and flees back to the backpacks. I am about to open my mouth when Vorlora returns with two of the wolf riders, both females, who immediately scan our camp. Their eyes meet the one we captured. One stands guard near the game trail. The other one loiters not too far from our backpacks. Neither draws their swords.

We wait in silence as Luda returns and, this time, offers and pours each present a cup of wine, which none refuse.

I take a sip, as do our guests. Fortunately, Vorlora remembers and does likewise. Only after we sip do they partake.

“I am Drusia.” I wave a hand towards Luda. “Our goblin scout is known as Kuda, and my apprentice is Vorlora.”

“The suspicious one guarding our retreat is Morraga. The other one guarding your goblin is Vrozila. I am the friendly one known as Milga Stone Blood the Fifth.”

I spit my wine out. I sense warmth rising on my face and then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Luda is also having a moment, yet I barely notice.

I try to breathe and can’t, then my body takes over, and I involuntarily draw in a breath. I know I work my jaw, and only when our three guests knowingly smile do I somewhat recover. What is reassuring is the fact that throughout my long moment of confusion, my apprentice continued to sip her wine.

“The Fifth?” My brain freezes. I can’t think of anything else.

“You are like many, I suspect. They recall my name from somewhere. Then place the name and earnt name in legend and become shocked after I share my name. But I have to say your performance is the best I have ever seen.”

Vrozila adds, “She is the Fifth, as you said, although we have a statue in Stone Corner and her face is a close match to the original.”

“You flatter me as always, Roz. I am simply trying to live up to the name.”

“Pfft!” says Morraga. “You fought for the name like no one else, and I have a scar to prove it!”

“Your birth name is different?” I ask Milga. The Milga I knew, I still remember. The only goblin who Lord Farmer Hob respected yet never bedded. Her skills, hard earnt and superb. Her wit and cunning dagger edge sharp.

“Coming of age contest. There is a test of skills. Some years, none complete the tests, let alone pass them, so I feel blessed to honour our founder’s name.”

I take a sip of wine and look over the edge of my cup. “What are ten scouts of Milga Stone Blood heritage doing in this valley?”

“Scouting…” the three of them answer in unison. They laugh so much afterwards that they nearly tip wine from their cups.

My face warms, a light blush only, I suspect. Tapping my foot, I ask, “Scouting for what reason? Aren’t you all far from home?”

“Looking for trading partners,” replies Milga. “We scout to determine if the residents and their leaders are open to trade instead of slaughter.”

My wide, disbelieving grin knows no restraint. “Wolf crap!”

Vrozila steps forward, her grip tightening on her cup. “We have several merchants following us now. It would be no effort for all of us to join them. If you want proof.”

Milga’s face doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t choke on her wine or shift her body. Truth or impervious to lie or surprise?

Luda advances towards Milga and I. Half a step closer than Vrozila, in fact. “You forget I scouted your camp. There are no merchants or signs of merchants.”

“Morraga, tell the troop to fetch our merchants. We will wait,” says Milga. Morraga hesitates for a blink of a heartbeat. Difficult, if at all possible, to notice, except Milga’s slight shift of her head drew my eyes, and I followed her gaze. This allowed me to study Morraga’s immediate reaction. I decide this is a pretence of some kind and can’t wait for the show.

---SUD GUTS RIPPER, LEADER OF THE OATH KEEPER MERCENARIES

“We must leave the valley. We are almost swimming in our droppings, not to mention the wolves. Each hunt for food brings back less. We have never gathered in such numbers…”

I growl at him to silence his truths and take up pacing. A scattering of sunlight pierces the stitched hide tent, hitting the long-ago dead grass, and I resist the urge to step on each spot. Such childish behaviour from the ruthless Sud Guts Ripper would only weaken my authority. Do I stay in this half-valley? We are not all gathered, yet we are four hundred strong, at least.

“Tell Tonagan to take his troop into the valley and start scouting a path to the Old Crone and the females.”

Tonagan Black Finger. It is said he slays whoever he points his finger at. I think his challenge was a simple way to gain an earnt name. While he continues to succeed, he has his name. When he fails, he is dead and no longer cares. But that is not the reason the other Oath Keeper mercenary troops dislike Tonagan Black Finger and his Black Spears. They dislike them because all the Oath Keeper goblins who we find and not sent to us by the Old Crone join his troop. He has a crone in his troop for this purpose, which is another difference. All the strays are together, Oath Keepers and yet not as the Oath Keeper tribe didn’t raise a single one. They, therefore, don’t know of our past, know our legends from birth, and always require a late education. Polluted by their previous living years and, therefore, never complete, is what others say. This just gets them angry… I can exploit their anger, and also the distaste the other troops have for them.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

I hear no immediate response and swivel to confront him. Usually, he is a flea in my ear, a persistent irritation. His head is down. “What?” I growl. I know, of course, but this is all part of the plan.

“Tonagan is not really one of us. Why would you grant him this honour? The first to return?”

I stifle a chuckle. “Are you also pissed off that he and his troop survived certain death?”

He spits. Intent or not, he strikes a sunny patch of dead grass. “He did so by sacrificing his stores and camp followers. Then running…”

I rock back on my heels. “Are you saying you and your troop would have stood their ground?”

“No. That would have been madness. But I would have retreated away from my stores and camp followers, not through them. It is said he waved goodbye as his troop rode through and left them as bait.”

My broad smile earns me a look of disgust from him. “Camp followers no longer burden him. His troop takes from our supplies more than they contribute. Best we send him and his on a mission,” I say.

“But…” His hands splay out in front of him. “He will meet them first, and most of his are…”

“I don’t think the Old Crone will allow his troop to spread their seed if that is your concern.”

He throws his head back in dismissive laughter. I wait until he comes to his senses. “How will her harsh words stop their spears?”

I advance towards Yog Swift Slayer, the underside of my fist hammering his chest until he needs to take a step back or suffer. “She won’t need harsh words. They, like us, are Oath Keepers. Now leave and tell him about his mission. Also, tell Juz to take his troop and hunt on the plains.”

“They will suffer losses?” His voice rises.

“I know, but do we enter the valley with none or less than four hundred while we wait for two hundred more?”

He lays a hand on my shoulder. “We haven’t heard from the fifth troop in almost a generation…” Our eyes meet. “The sixth has a permanent commission, living, they say, an almost peaceful existence pretending to be law guardians for King Uk of the Duzsia Slayer tribe. Why would they…”

I sweep his hand from my shoulder. “Because they are Oath Keepers. If you don’t understand that simple reasoning, how can I permit you to continue to lead the Sword Fangs Troop?”

His face flushes green. “Have a Crone taste my blood! I am Oath Keeper and will die an Oath Keeper. Never doubt the loyalty of my lineage. But we wait for a troop of ghosts and a troop who hasn’t fought a true battle in years. They could all be fat and lazy for all we know, yet we wait for them. Let us all ride to the valley now. Leave this crap-stained butt crack of a valley behind, together.”

We are nose to nose. “Do you wish to challenge me for leadership?”

He takes a step back. “No. My strength is to advise. I will issue your orders.”

As he faces away from me to leave, I call out, “This is for the best.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. The pain stops me from revealing more before I should. Unknown to them, their camp followers would need to be released from the burden of life before we leave this half valley. We must present ourselves to the Old Crone as mercenaries returning to fulfil our sworn oaths. Embrace pure Oath Keeper females only.

At the last moment, I call out, “Yog!” He pauses, the tent flap hanging half open. “You are right. Assemble your Sword Fangs, enter the valley and scout a secret way for the rest of us to join our females.”

He nods in delight, his fangs glistening in the sunlight.

With Tonagan and his Black Spears without camp followers and my troop, who have never kept such company, we will need to do the slaughtering. Keeping my troop in line all these years was tough. For the last few years, though, I have relented and allowed them to reap what they can after each victory but leaving our conquests behind. Yes, we will be well placed to cull the camp followers of the Sword Fangs and the Claw Fangs while they are absent and can’t object. Would they if present? Perhaps. Camp follower mothers have birthed some of both troops. Yes, this is for the best.

---

“Why did you send the Sword Fangs?” asks Tonagan Black Finger.

The night is upon the camp, and I throw the bone I am now finished with into the maw of my wolf. He snaps it out of the air with a crunch. The flames of our firepit reflect off his drool.

“Welcome, Tonagan. Sit with me.”

He casts his eyes about, and I think, for the first time, he realises he has entered my troop’s camp without an escort. I muse that his anger overrode his good sense - not a good leadership trait. Under the watch of many eyes, he slides onto my log. We are as far apart as the length of the log will allow.

He stares into the fire for several heartbeats and then faces me. “I meant no disrespect, yet Sword Fangs? They have polluted their ranks…”

“Yes.”

He raises both his eyebrows.

“We have some work ahead. Work I believe you will support, no matter the level of distaste.”

---LORD KLAR POV

I don’t understand as my tears fall on her face. She is as full of nanorobots as any of my wives. I add more through her parted lips by clenching and unclenching my fist to squeeze blood from my hastily made palm wound. I dispense with compressing her chest. My lips are on hers, and I breathe for her. More of my blood, and then again, I breathe for her.

I overhear the prattle of conversion outside the cottage. They are certain she is dead, and I have gone insane from the loss. From far away, the wind carries the cries of infants to me. Three boys, all hobgoblins. All perfect, even if smaller than average.

Her lips gently explore mine, and I throw my head back in surprise. Her eyes flutter, lips curve in a generous smile. Recovering, I place a cup of water on her lips, and she guzzles, her eyes asking for more after drinking the cup dry. I nestle her head in the crook of my arm as she empties cup after cup. I know the water is partly for her, yet mainly for the nanorobots. The blood oozing from her loins dries up the previous flood, disappearing. Absorption? With a grunt from her, the placenta falls out and away. Digging her heels into the bed, she pushes her body away from the black mass of blood and bulbous flesh. I support her into a sitting position against my chest.

“Thalgora.” My breathy announcement, a relief and a celebration. Her face turns upwards, and our eyes meet. Tears threaten to overflow. Through this watery window, we truly connect. Our exchange is lightning.

“Koria Keen Eye.” There is no doubt her spirit now inhabits Thalgora’s body. Thalgora is truly dead, and I must look away to rummage through my emotions.

“Don’t be sad, Lord Farmer Hob.” Our eyes meet once again. “I sense your loss and wish your pain could be made less by my return to flesh.”

“How?” I mumble.

“I suspect, even though indirectly, you caused her death, according to how this world determines such things.”

“How can this world blame me for her death because of childbirth? This is a natural circumstance.” I stifle my dark humour to prevent a disrespectful display of laughter. Those who now stand gossiping outside would probably consider any outburst maniacal or proof of insanity because of grief. While I always hoped for Thalgora to live, now that her body does, how will those outside come to terms with this impossibility?

Her body struggles for freedom, and I release her. Climbing to her feet is a simple exercise. There is no legacy of weakness from her recent child birthing, no bleeding or tiredness. Her bright eyes stare down into mine. I am trying to process death from childbirth to being healthy and alive. My surprise is too real. Why? This isn’t Thalgora, alive or dead. This is Koria’s unexpected return.

Rough hands cup my cheeks. “Will I pretend a long recovery, or will I walk out and surprise them? I can say you remain inside in a state of shock. We could also walk out together, hand in hand?”

I rise and scoop her up into a princess carry. “Together. You are recovering and need a new cottage away from the blood and to be reunited with our sons.”

“Yes, husband.” Her skin sprouts goosebumps. She is now, or still is, my first wife.

Pulling the door open, I manoeuvre Koria through the doorway. Bright sunlight, the three who attended the childbirth, and my wives greet us.

“I will take her, Lord,” sobs Zergoa, her arms out, ready to accept my burden.

“There is no need. She is tired yet recovering.” Koria weakly waves a hand. The entire audience gasps.

Lord Torngul’s midwife charges forward and flings open Koria’s robe, trying her best to examine Koria’s loins. “The placenta, Lord.” She doesn’t look up.

“In the cottage.”

“Whole?” her retort. She doesn’t wait for my reply. “This is a first. This is a miracle. Lord Torngul will be mighty pleased. The value of Shaza and Zinia as brides is now priceless.” She steps back and taps her chin. “Three different mothers, though. Difficult for them to have the same mother because of your mother’s tragic demise.” She pats Koria’s forearm, and I feel her body tense. Does Koria know of Thalgora’s past, or does she somehow keep… memories?

“None remember the mothers, so Lord Torngul’s seed will be the prize as much as his unwed daughters,” she continues.

The midwife seems to be thinking out loud. Her head snaps around, locating the goblin and the wild one who accompanied her. “Hurry, you two. Pack. We must rush back to Lord Torngul. Be the first with the news and best placed to be rewarded.” She clears her throat. “To share and celebrate his joy…”

With that said, she hurries off after her two companions.

My second wife and concubines crowd us, and then, as one, they draw back.

“Welcome to your re-life, Koria Keen Eye. We thought never to see you again during this cycle,” says Klaria. “Such is the majesty and power of Lord Klug.”

“Lord Klar, didn’t you mean to say,” says Voria, her weak words failing but still loud enough for all to hear because of nanorobot enhancement.

Klaria hugs Voria. “Of course, of course! I am overawed by Thalgora’s near death, nothing more.”

Each checks on Koria to reassure themselves she is well. A miracle. The sun disappears behind a cloud, and like a signal, my Chief Scribe appears, and she leads us to the cottage holding my sons. Unexpectantly, we find the two young scribes fussing about and caring for them. When Thalgora enters, their shock is real. They care for three newborns, and all know the mother’s survival is impossible. After they recovered, they quickly assured my first wife of their experience and skill in newborn care. The hearth is shortly ablaze, and everyone is snuggling to share bodily warmth. My wife has a babe suckling from each breast while the third screams in protest. I leave, ignoring her and her sister’s protesting voices as I have unfinished business outside.

A light patter of rain falls on my cheeks, and I glimpse the tail of her robe as she scoots around a nearby cottage.

---

I crouch in the shadows underneath the eve of the manor. Her heavy breathing alerts me, and I stroll around the circular log walls. She is hoisting herself up the ladder, and with her buttocks level with my face, I snatch her down and swing her into a princess carry. She doesn’t squeak. Her body tenses up instead as she closes her eyes.

“What are you doing sneaking around?”

“Not sneaking, Lord. I… I needed to know an answer.” She pats her belly. The cloth of the robe remains proud where it should be flat. “Given the birth of your sons and the… and the miraculous survival of your first wife, I thought another time would be better. I can wait.”

“Ask?”

She draws in a deep breath and keeps her head down. “How many do I carry?” Craning her head up, she sneaks a glance.

“One, as far as I know.” She tears, yet in the darkness, I can’t decide if these are tears of joy, relief, or disappointment. “Did you want more or maybe none?”

Her head shakes from side to side. “Always one, Lord. I owe you… my future.”

“Did you do any scribing?”

She scrambles for a leather bag hanging off her shoulder and digs into the contents. A short while after, she waves three pieces of parchment under my nose.

“What did you write?”

“The birth of your sons, Lord. The remarkable survival of their mother…”

“And?”

A nervous titter escapes her lips. “Your wife, erm, second wife, her false name for you. I wrote it down because that is what she said, but none would believe such a thing.”

Her disbelief is almost absolute. Is this enough? “If I said I needed your death.” She sucks in a deep breath, yet doesn’t attempt to escape my arms. “In fact, you would serve me best by dying now. Would you accept your fate?”

Tears fill her eyes. “I owe you my future, Lord Klar. Before you, I thought death would be the only thing to free me from my torment. Do you mind if I close my eyes while, while you… take my life?”

My fingers lightly grip her throat, and her eyes fly open. “Sorry, Lord. I thank you for curing my lameness.” She rubs her belly. “For my pregnancy, although to mother, my child would have been beyond my wildest dreams. What you have given me is enough. I die happy, Lord.” She closes her eyes. “I rejoice that I, your pitiful, undeserving scribe, can perform one last duty in your glorious service, Lord Klug.”

My fingers withdraw from her throat as if they stung. They grab at her chin instead and shake. “What of your words? None would believe such a thing?” When she doesn’t open her eyes or speak, I shake her chin again and growl.

“With your seed, you healed my lameness. How is that possible? When Klaria said your true name, I knew the truth deep in my heart. To lie to you pained me, Lord, but I thought that was the answer you wanted from me. I live to serve you, Lord Klug, Lord Farmer Hob. A version of Lord Klug who is almost opposite to what the Klugites teach.”

“How do you know what the Klugites teach?” My inner Hob rises. He wishes this to end with a snap of her neck as none, but those bound to me must know my secret.

“I have been in the service of many, my first as a child. My mother was a Priestess of Klug, and I learnt to read and write from her. She took me on her travels from temple to temple, and one day a tribe of goblins hooted and howled from ambush, slaying many with us. Delighting in the fact we were Klugites. Cruel and torturous to the wounded, their last screams will forever haunt me. They spared me because I was a child, I think, but when I ran away several days later, they shattered my ankle after catching me. Their wolves, Lord. There was no running after that, but as I grew, my lameness protected me from other abuses as none wanted to waste their seed on a cripple.”

Her heart is beating almost out of her chest, yet her eyes are strangely dry.

“Didn’t you tell me Clan Ironmonger made you lame?”