---JUZ BLOOD DAGGER, CLAW FANGS TROOP LEADER POV
“We have lost five on the hunt. Two sons and three second sons. None could think less of all their brave deaths because of their origin. Argh, especially Muz.”
I stop my pacing upon hearing the name and then wave to him to continue.
“The gathering will feast tonight and for several more. We will need to ask another troop to help us haul the carcasses from the pits.”
I didn’t think the three days of digging pits would yield so many kills, and yet I can’t reward the warrior for his plan. He is one of our dead, Muz, a second son.
“We will need to rope as many as we can to our wolves,” I say.
He smirks. “Or as many as they will tolerate.”
“Yes. They have a mind of their own at times.”
A wave of dismay grows louder, washing towards my tent. We share a glance and rush through the tent flap. A snap of heavy cloth sounds behind us.
Approaching us is a single distraught female goblin. I don’t know her; I doubt many looking on with their mouths open do, either. They know she is one of ours. Her armband displays an etching of a claw between a set of fangs.
Then one from my troop breaks free of those gawking and scoops her up as her legs fail. Another warrior rushes forward and dibbles water onto her lips from a waterskin.
She is standing, although leaning on her rescuer, by the time I reach them. “Who is she?”
“Noka, my mate, Troop Leader.”
I place my hand under her chin and lift her head until we are eye to eye. “What has happened?”
“While… while others slept, I snuck into the bush to pass my water. I didn’t go too far as the campfires had burnt low. If I had my wits about me, I would have given warning…” She sobs, and her rescuer pats her hair and whispers in her ear. “There weren’t any screams, yet alone in the night's silence…” She shivers. “I heard the knives strike-through flesh and the occasional gasp… then I saw them.” Her face twists in anguish. “In the glow of the dying fires, I saw the black spears carved on their chest armour.” She spits off to one side in defiance. “I climbed a tree as high as I could. Their wolves would hunt down any strays, I thought. Throughout the night until morning, I overheard howls and then a scream, again and again.” She covers her face and sobs again.
In as gentle a tone as I can muster, I ask, “Do you know if any others live?”
“No Leader, none.” Her chest hitches as tears run freely down her cheeks. “Several wolves passed under my tree, with and without riders. I waited until late afternoon, climbed down, and ran. When exhausted, I still ran. Last night I slept where I dropped. I found a dry stream, dug for water, and then sniffed out our wolves and ran.”
I didn’t need to listen to the hum to know her story had spread across the troop. My riders crowd towards me, waiting.
“Your mothers, your companions, your young are now dead. While Tonagan’s Black Spears slew them, they would have only done so with Sud Guts Ripper’s say-so. As hard as this is to accept, this is the price he expects us to pay to honour our oath.”
There are howls full of pain, anguish, and threats.
My oath tugs at my soul, and I lost no one close to me. This will break some of them, yet the slaughter of the camp followers may not be the end.
“Remember your oaths.” I smell their blood on the gentle breeze blowing across this plain grass. They are cutting themselves… “We are not the only troop who will have to endure. The Sword Fangs left their camp followers behind as well.” The silence is almost instant. These others will, when they are told, feel our pain and somehow, that provides a strange sense of comfort.
I raise my empty hands. “We will pack as much meat as possible and leave the rest to rot. We will seek the Sword Fangs across the plains, and together, we will decide what to do.”
The murmuring picks up. I suspect I have their tacit agreement, now to push forward with an unpleasant truth.
“That is not all.” They raise their heads. “Second sons. While I trust in your oaths, I firmly believe the culling isn’t finished, so you have a choice. Stay or leave. I would ask you to stay until we meet with Sword Fangs, but I would understand if you left before then.” A few heads turn and search for others. They are deciding. “Break camp, take as much as you can, and we ride in search of the Sword Fangs.”
They move with purpose, from routine, not eagerness. Their hearts are heavy, yet instead of madness, their oath binds them, and their blood runs true in their veins. They are Oath Keepers, one and all.
“Look after her.”
They both return blank looks as I turn away.
---
Several days of sober riding see us clear of the plains. Our scouts avoid the many migrating herds, large, medium, and small, which claim this land as their own.
Those same scouts quickly locate the Sword Fangs’ scouts.
Yog Swift Slayer and I exchange arm-length grasps. While he is eager to speak, I motion for us to enter his tent. His face gives away his confusion and then grudging acceptance. I then tell him what I know and what I suspect. I swore my troop to silence and camped them a distance away.
Colour drains from his face, and I wait.
He weakly waves his hand in a direction. “The Stone Bloods are, at most, two days ahead of us. We thought to follow them as they would encounter any villages or towns first, which we could then avoid.”
“That is an excellent strategy,” I offer.
We share a long silence.
“We could have sent them away, couldn’t we?”
“Yes, except their deaths would have been slower, from starvation or terrifying when wild or civilised animals found them.”
His head finally turns to face me. “So, you accept this?”
“No. But I understand the decision. We elected him as our leader. We are oath-bound to follow him. There is no leeway or exception. I fear the second sons will also be subject to slaughter.”
He opens his mouth, and his jaw hangs open. Then his eyes light up.
Before he can speak, I say, “I know what you are thinking. The second sons could have protected our camp followers. We are facing difficulties now finding enough food by hunting off the land. They wouldn’t be able to hunt enough and wouldn’t be strong enough to form a troop of their own and hire out as mercenaries.”
I see the light in his eyes die; somehow, his grief is infectious.
“What have your second sons decided?”
“I asked them to remain until we met your troop. If they do decide to leave, then best they leave as one, not in ones or twos, as I suspect our leader will order them to be slain if easy and convenient to do so.”
He reaches into a backpack, retrieves two clay bottles, and hands me one. “Mead, the best I have found.”
An engraving on the bottle reads ‘Luda’s Sunshine’. I shrug and draw a mouthful. Somehow, the honey sweetness soothes my nerves, yet I know this is a pleasant illusion.
The smashing sound wakes me, and I open my eyes to fragments of clay at his feet. “The time has come for me to speak to them and reveal what has happened. A genuine test of their oaths, it is then.” He sighs and slow walks out of his tent.
I stay. This is between him and his troop. While his words aren’t the same as mine, the outcome is similar. Do they honour their oath or not? The dead can’t return, and they weren’t true Oath Keepers. Do the second sons leave as one before someone also slaughters them? None of the second sons is a pure-blood Oath Keeper. Most are half; some are more fortunate, greater than half. Those less than half could only remain as camp followers, servants, if lucky.
The tent flap shifts and Yog Swift Slayer returns. He loosens his belt, allowing his scabbard to fall away as he reaches for another clay bottle of mead. I know the feeling he is searching for, and it will be fleeting. When he wakes, because he has run out of mead, his problem, now our problem will remain.
“You can’t.”
He pauses, his hand reaching out. “Why not?”
“You are their leader, as I am of my troop. We have an oath to uphold, as well. Mead or no mead, the problem won’t solve itself, and I don’t want two hundred goblins expecting me to come up with all the answers.”
He straightens and frowns.
I add, “Go pick up your sword.”
His steps are heavy, yet his sword is on his hip when he returns to face me. “We don’t have a choice, do we?” he asks.
I manage a half-smile. “Of course. Abandon our Oaths and go our own way or hold to our Oath, follow our leader, and return to the Old Crone and the Oath Keeper tribe as summoned.”
“Simple words for a tough decision.”
My hand rests on his shoulder, and his eyes lift to find mine. “Not tough, heavy. We are Oath Keepers. At best, we can feel a little better by sending our second sons away before our leader orders them slaughtered.”
“Yes,” he mumbles. “The least we can do for those who have shed their blood with us.”
“We are decided?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
A single tear rolls down his cheek, which he quickly wipes away. “We are decided.”
---
We wave goodbye to our second sons in the morning: seventeen wolf riders and one female. We follow them for part of the way and then take a line that will hopefully take us directly to the camp of Sud Guts Ripper. I couldn’t stomach wasting the meat and sent a volunteer back to report to the first Spear Fangs or Black Spears scout they found. Advise them of the carcasses of meat waiting to be claimed. A second son’s hand shot up despite my protest and never returned. He said he needed to find for himself. The sooner, the better.
---LORD KLAR POV
She swallows. “I thought a recent story of injury would engender more sympathy, Lord.”
“What of the son and the daughter?”
“That is true, Lord, but I was already lame by then, with no chance of escape.” She hitches her chest. “You were my first, Lord.” Her eyes tear.
“I am honoured.” Her last words came out of nowhere, and I judged my response poor. Somehow, I feel her survival instinct simply kicks in when under duress. She survived by encouraging sympathy in her captors or owners. Even now, when willing to submit to me, accepting her death, she reaches for pity because that has been her life since she was a child, and she knows nothing different.
“The goblins sold me on, as did several other owners after them until you valued me. I am ready now, Lord.” She closes her eyes. “If I can ask a favour, please make my death quick. If I am not asking for too much, that is. Also, the sisters know enough now. They will need some guidance but are loyal and competent. I have left my calculations and notations in good order, which I am certain they can follow and explain my workings to you.” Her hands fumble to return the three pages to her bag. Her head nods slightly while patting the bag.
Setting her down on her feet, my arm wraps around her throat. I whisper in her ear, “Sleep now.”
The dead weight of her body falls into my arms, which I lower to the ground. Positioning a hand on either side of her head, I then bunch my muscles in preparation. This must be done, I tell myself.
“She is smart, Lord.”
I sigh in frustration. “What has that got to do with anything?” I retort with venom. This is tough enough. Doesn’t Izga realise this? Why is she here?
“I have an overflowing bucket of water I was looking to empty, but, you know, you can use it first.”
I turn to face my young and, at times, playful assassin. Her wide smile of satisfaction rains down on me. “You would welcome another to compete for my loins?”
Her foot loiters on the lip of the bucket. With a push, the water sloshes. “She is smart.”
“Bring that bucket here.” I stab a finger in her direction. “You will be responsible for her, you hear me?”
The bucket lands near me. She drops to her haunches and raises her eager eyes.
“I don’t need another,” I mumble to myself.
Her hand rests on mine. “She needs to live another life, Lord.”
“We could ask many others I am Lord of and easily find several who say they deserve another life. That can’t be a reason.” My hand darts behind her head, and I drag her sweet, pouting lips to mine. We break our kiss. “From time to time, I am tired of being responsible for everyone.”
“You make yourself responsible, Lord. You don’t need to be responsible. This is my first life, but I can see how Duzsia, for example, in her second life, is so much better accomplished in her skills, her confidence, and especially in predicting what you expect of her. That is my wish also, and I am certain all your wives think similarly.”
I smirk. “How do you explain, Luda?”
“She is, troubled. The simplest solution for you is not to slay goblins until all your wives have returned to you. How would her second life have been if she returned as a hobgoblin instead of a goblin?”
This simple and now obvious observation hits me hard. What would have been different if Luda returned as a hobgoblin? Or like Koria, a goblin, but not until we were done with Hobgoblin Town.
“Perhaps, I hope such simple abstinence on my part will fix her and everyone, for that matter. Although, if I have no choice…”
Her ringing laughter is somewhat of a comfort. Wiping tears of joy from her eyes, she holds my cheeks in her hands and says, “You told me I would be responsible for her. Let me be responsible. I will train her to at least hold a dagger properly, hide, and sneak. I will train her some more in her next life, and she might teach your other wives and me to read and write. We will have several lives to improve our skills and hone our knowledge.”
There it is, then. My lithe assassin, not even done with her first life, wants to use her multiple lives to learn. Read and write now, for example, and what better way than to have a sister available? I wonder what is stopping her from doing so now.
“What makes you think she can’t teach you now?”
“We are pregnant.” I raise an eyebrow. “Your other wives tell us, the last time you made them pregnant, you died shortly after.”
I ruffle her hair and chuckle. “How can they or you link my fate or your fate to what happened last time? Then I didn’t release a wife…” Oh, sheet, yes, I did. “Wait, I have it now. The last time I didn’t release a wife and then slay her. In fact, I died before any of my wives did. This time, Zoria is not only dead but released. Nudia was near enough to my wife and is now dead. Thalgora?”
“I am sorry, Lord, I misspoke.” Her eyes stray towards my head scribe. “What about her, Lord?”
My scribe deserves my immediate attention, yet my wives trying to foretell our futures is concerning. This mess warrants a family discussion. The sooner, the better. This foolish prediction could have come only from my original wives.
I grab my scribe by the back of the neck and shove her face into the bucket of water. She wakes and then flails her arms and legs. After a short while, her body calms, and I fish her head out of the bucket.
“Are you certain?” I ask Izga.
“Yes, Lord. I will look after her, I promise.”
I pump her chest and then breathe into her mouth. I repeat many times, and finally, she spits out water and sucks in a breath.
“Service or death?”
“Service Lord Klug, oh glorious and happy service.”
Her spirit returns to her body while I keep a tithe to establish our bond, which will persist in this life and after death so we can find each other again the next time.
“You belong to me forevermore, Solgia, Chief Scribe.”
Her arms reach up and wrap around my waist. “I hoped, Lord. I dreamed.”
“You knew of the bonding?”
“My mother was a Priestess of Klug, Lord. I was aware of their version. Lord Klug’s version would have to be more, better, stronger, surely, I reasoned. I observed your wives and you. I recognised the difference in Nudia. You liked her, yet for all that, you didn’t bind her to you. Likewise, Thalgora…”
“Thalgora didn’t die…”
She places a finger across my lips. “She wasn’t bound to you, Lord, and triplets are a death sentence. I don’t know which of your wives inhabits Thalgora, but I am certain I will know once we stand next to each other or touch. As I know, because of our closeness, Izga is like me. She is bound to you in her original body.”
“I told you she was smart, Lord,” offers Izga, a smug tone in her voice.
I am shaking my head at Izga until I feel the lips of my Chief Scribe on mine. Her lips break from mine as I raise an eyebrow. “I am due your seed, Lord. Observing your wives, those who consume more grow stronger faster, and I will not remain weak. Your seed cured my lameness. Now I need to strengthen my body. Contribute instead of being a burden.”
“You contribute, have contributed.”
She shakes her head. “Do you know what is happening inside my body?” Her body climbs over mine. “I feel them.” She hitches her robe up to expose herself to me. “They were feint. I needed to trust your words and will them to heal me without truly knowing them.” Her fingers explore and unravel the leather bindings holding up my pants. “They burn within me. I am aware of them now, each one and I have ordered them to work. But I need more, Lord.”
“Here? Now? What of the shy scribe who required a tent, who was even afraid to kiss me around others?”
She kisses me, her tongue invasive, while she manipulates the lower half of her body until her loins capture mine. A victory sigh escapes from her lips, and shortly after, our coupling proceeds with gusto. “My next life could be, as you say, cautious. In this life, I have been a victim. I am determined not to be one from now on, and I will take from you until you push me away.” She lavishes me with kisses.
“Then, when I feel the time is right, I will demand your attention again.” Her energy and movement somehow cause her robe to fall from her shoulders and expose her chest. “Izga’s method hasn’t been lost on me. Since my written observations confirm she is the primary beneficiary of your seed, I will copy her technique and try to use my imagination to go beyond.” My former quiet Scribe grabs one of my hands, and my palm lands on one of her breasts, which I instinctively massage.
“After all, my experience of goblin savagery went beyond slaying and torture. They were also cruel to their females, and some of those survived as favourites longer than others, even receiving more food. A rare few received an occasional trinket.” She pouts. “I am singular in my aims. My demand is for your seed, Lord.” Her plain truth is a shock, as is the fact my other hand now rests above her loins. A sharp pain radiates from my ear, and her tongue paints her lips black with my blood before my wide eyes. As I open my mouth to swear, she cackles and plants her bloodied lips on mine. My inner Hob roars to life, and I willingly lose control. He will teach her the folly of overreach.
---MILGA STONE BLOOD THE FIFTH POV
The traders are the sons, not the fathers. Their nervousness overrides any coaching my sisters may have given them in preparation and before our ruse even begins. I wave them away. Somehow, my host finds much entertainment in the situation instead of tension. Wisdom beyond her years, perhaps.
As their nervous chatter dies, I drain my cup and face my host.
“You did better than I thought. I don’t doubt they are traders, yet so young for such a risky enterprise to gamble their lives on,” she says. I am confident her look of concern is false…
“Their fathers are to blame.”
She stretches her legs out and crosses them as if she is in command and not outnumbered ten to three. “So…”
“I think we will be on our way. Someone will have to escort the traders home.”
“Or,” she says. “Someone could escort them to a trading post I know of if they are indeed here to trade.”
I hold my cup out to her goblin companion. She obliges and pours the wine, yet I sense an intensity of purpose behind her eyes. Once the wine bottle is out of her hands, dagger hilts fill them. The blades, though, remain in their respective sheaths. Vrozila more than once glances in my direction.
“Are you offering?”
Light, polite laughter from her is my answer. Then the other one speaks up. “We could provide directions, couldn’t we, Mistress? I mean, there isn’t an obvious path, but sticking to the river should get them there.”
“As my apprentice says, we could provide directions and some warnings. First off, there is a large town called Hobgoblin Town, and, as the name suggests, they like hobgoblins. What the name doesn’t suggest is they hate goblins and have specific laws which, when breached, force all goblins into slavery.”
“All goblins?” I ask.
“Yes,” hisses her goblin scout with a bitterness that reaches deep into my heart. I expect she has firsthand experience of their lack of hospitality.
“Unfortunately, we have other business to attend to. We need to meet up with certain acquaintances.” I climb to my feet and wave to Morraga and Vrozila to leave first. They dally, of course, for my sake.
“You will know where to find us if you change your mind. I expect to train my apprentice for several more days before returning home.” We shake hands, and I take my leave.
---
While mounting my wolf, I take a long, hard look back at their hide. Goblins tremble when I shake their hands. The name, my confidence, and possibly my lineage all hold weight. Some hobgoblins, while not trembling, tend to defer to me after a handshake as well. This hobgoblin didn’t have any sense of hesitation. I was simply another goblin in her eyes. If nothing else, her reaction has placed me on notice. Her apprentice is convincingly naïve, light relief. The goblin scout, though, I sense, solves her problems using a dagger. Talking first is simply an unnecessary delay. Worse still, if my host had released her from whatever leash held her in check, she would have taken on the ten-to-three odds thinking she could win. A shiver runs down my spine, and my wolf whines. I pat her, and at a pace, we leave well enough alone.
The traders, the young useless hobgoblins, are in our camp and, therefore, under our protection. They will be a burden, and I consider making an offer to the hobgoblin to escort them to the trading post. Three days later, we discover our acquaintances, the goblin mercenaries, have left the valley.
True to her word, the three haven’t left, and I listen to her directions and heed her warnings. I leave half of my riders here, yet closer to the mouth of the valley, so they can stand watch over the plains to gain the maximum warning. A rider troop of a hundred or more is difficult to disguise on a vast plain, even with migrating herds.
The trip was a simple one, as her apprentice hinted at. Taking care to avoid any hobgoblins, we crossed the long grass, and you don’t so much as search for the southern river as wade into the swift water while pushing forward. Following the river deeper into the valley, we soon entered a dense forest, which required some backtracking at times to find game trails or more open areas to travel. A couple of days later, we found a village of hobgoblins and many cultivated fields that Lord Farmer Hob would be proud of. We bypassed these, needing to climb some low hills to do so, and then made our way back to the river.
I sent scouts to study the beginnings of civilisation before us. Light rain covered our sneaking about, and I could now see why they sent us here. They had established a large goblin village across the river. On this side, on a hill, sat a modest wooden fort with gates sized to accommodate hobgoblins and walls tall enough to hold them out. A sizable hobgoblin village hugged the river. From the hobgoblin village to the forest edge were late-season crop plantings, which this rain would help. We were a day overdue, so I sent one of my riders back to let the others know we would be delayed. Then we waited three days for the weather to clear, and I decided with our food low, we would make an approach and say the magic words, ‘Drusia sent us to trade.’ The young traders would need to conclude their trading in a day or be left behind, as we were now several days behind and should almost be returned by now.