---NARO, HIGH PRIESTESS OF KLUG POV
More dead bodies lay on the fitted stone floor than stood before me. I am disappointed, of course. After all, I didn’t expect this level of loyalty for the former High Priestess. Fortunately, Rexa’s bedroom was enormous, if plain, and the number of corpses didn’t present an immediate issue, especially when piled in one corner. Those spirit bound to me fetched those they thought essential to Rexa’s running of things, mainly her relatives. As she aged, she needed to depend on many others in the final years, and some, of course, took advantage of their new freedom, family or not.
“How many more do you intend to, erm, test? High Priestess?” asks the Holy Scribe.
Except for scratches on the parchment, I genuinely appreciated her silence. I am sure she recorded the names of the dead and the living without fear or favour to ensure a proper record.
“Is your writing hand beginning to tire?” I flash her a lavish smile as I stroll between and around a few stray corpses yet to be tidied.
“No, High Priestess, my concern is the few sheets of parchment I have left.”
“Well, each time my followers leave to fetch more for testing, they find fewer, and the return journey takes longer, so I suspect we are near the end.”
A tapping draws my attention, and I stare directly at the Holy Scribe.
“Sorry, High Priestess, a nervous habit. I have a question and want to be certain to live after I ask and, more importantly, after I record your answer…”
“Why do you think I have let you live and, more significantly, haven’t spirit bound you?”
She leans forward on her tall table. “That is not the question I had in mind. In fact, I have deliberately not asked that question so as not to tempt fate.”
“Let me put your mind at ease.” Bending over, I rub the material of one corpse’s dress between my fingers. Fine cloth, expensive dye. Straightening, I glance over my shoulder at the Holy Scribe. “I want an unbiased recording of my time as High Priestess because I believe I can do better than Rexa.”
“These slaying…” The snapping of her mouth shut is almost worthy of laughter.
“Didn’t First Wife Rexa slay, to begin with? Didn’t she, shall we say, eliminate the other wives of Klug along the way to ensure her undisputed rise?”
The stiff nod from the Holy Scribe part nerves and part confirmation.
“Think of me condensing months of such nonsense into a day, perhaps two.”
“Yes, High Priestess, brilliant, except most of the slain are relatives of High Priestess Rexa, and them not returning from her vigil bed is probably why your servants can’t find more to accept the invitation. Perhaps some have left instead…”
I grind my teeth and feel the pain of my fingernails piercing the skin of my palms. Of course! My first lesson is about overconfidence. I see now, the most senior of your relatives leave and never return. What do you think? Then the same for the next level of seniority and so on. Of course, at some stage, your survival instinct will kick in and suggest that you should run away instead of accepting. Where will these run to? What fable will they spread? Will they oppose me, like Zoria Oath Keeper did, subtly against Rexa, or will they gather and march to war?
“I can advise that most of the line of Kluggoth are now extinct, High Priestess. They were never a hardy branch of Rexa’s, truth be told. About half of Klugrath’s line still lives.”
“After two hundred years, there are only two lines?”
“Yes. They favoured their own family, if you know what I mean. Klugrath’s line, I assume because his father was Lord Farmer Hob, stronger, healthier, and, well, Kluggoth…”
I cackle. “So, the old rumour is true? Is that what you can’t say out loud?”
“I am a Scribe of Klug, and while the journals go back many years, none exist to record the early years to confirm or deny. Yet his line was always the weakest. It would stand to reason that his line would be as strong as Klugrath’s if they shared the same father, which is impossible, given Lord Klug’s death. So, some weakness would be expected, yet many stillbirths and the like seem to suggest a greater wrongness.”
“Yes. Apparently, Zeb Stone Grim always swore until his untimely death that Klugrath fathered Kluggoth with Rexa, which would explain much, including their ongoing family tradition.”
I tap my chin. “Not the fact that those of Klugrath’s line never weaken, though.” Did she ply them with Lord Klug’s blood? It seems a cure-all if ever there was one. Then why didn’t she do the same for Kluggoth’s line?
---ZOROTTOR, BLACK TOOTHS TROOP LEADER POV
I wait to eavesdrop on their arguing and conclude their petty concerns are simply that: petty. The two guards on either side of me shift their feet, their eyes looking elsewhere. I am confident that they will relay the dissent they overhead to everyone as soon as their shift is done. I should slay them now to forestall any rumour-mongering, but alas, they aren’t of my troop.
Crashing through the tent flaps, my arrival quietens all the yelling while two Troop Leaders draw and slam their weapons back into the sheaths they didn’t clear.
“Your fat!”
I eye Sud Guts Ripper with a severe look and then break out into laughter. “I prefer well-fed and ready for a long fight.”
His hands clap. “Well met, Tor Black Tooth. I am glad you answered the call.”
“Zorottor…” I reply.
“What? That is not?”
“No. The Northern Tribes are a mix of civilised and tribal, a legacy of one of Lord Klug’s wives, and Zorot is an acknowledgement of one, while Tor is the acknowledgment of the other. Compromise.” I draw in a deep breath. “Something the conversation in this tent badly needs, I would suggest.”
“What do you know?” says one of the other Troop Leaders. Juz perhaps? His face is ready to explode and possibly shed, well, tears?
My hands splay open before me. “You are Troop Leader…?”
He spits and then growls, “Yog Swift Slayer, Leader of the Sword Fangs.”
Shoving my thumbs into my sword belt, I humph. Shedding or almost shedding tears for camp followers is new to me. Several in Uk’s tribe would attempt to join us, and we would tolerate them but never welcome them. They weren’t Oath Keepers. What is so difficult to understand?
“All of those not of Oath Keeper blood aren’t Oath Keeper. They aren’t us.” Another shoulders his way forward to stand beside Yog the Tearful. I straighten and square my shoulders. Half a head taller than both, they need to tilt their heads upwards since they are attempting to body front me in some sort of challenge. They mistake my weight for laziness instead of what I have stated, regular generous meals.
“Stand down!” yells Sud Guts Ripper. The one beside him, though, cracks a thin smile.
As the two ease back, the one beside Sud steps forward, his open hand reaching out. I stare at his hand for a long moment. He smiles, almost breaking into laughter as he flashes Sud a glance. I stretch my hand out with caution, and he takes my hand in his. Our clasped hands shake, and then he releases.
“A friendly greeting. Open hands, no weapons, you see?” he explains.
Yes. I like this a lot since I wield my sword using my other hand.
I recognise Sud, of course, because of regular visits. The others lead their respective troops, yet their names escape me, and Sud never mentioned them. I assume because I would never leave the valley of King Uk and therefore didn’t need to know.
“When do we break camp to visit the Crone?” I ask. From listening, I knew Sud Guts had dealt with their respective camp followers using simple betrayal, and they now complain about what couldn’t be changed.
The two Troop Leaders stare at Sud and then back at me. Their camp followers are dead. They weren’t Oath Keepers. What is left to discuss?
“Will your Black Tooths Troop need a day to rest? Your beasts?”
I shake a clay jar or two until I hear swishing. Take a draw and savour the smooth, warming mead. “We have spare mounts, so our beasts are fine.” I take another mouthful. “My troop is used to hunting enemies of King Uk, and they don’t give up because of tiredness or night. Harass and harass some more is our method. The more days they taste freedom, the more distance and directions they have to lose themselves in.” I throw the empty jar to the ground and search for another. “King Uk appreciated a quick return, and we prided ourselves on delivering.”
“Who fetches for him now?” asks the hand shaker.
“Oh, we have trained some of his tribe, even gave them some wolf pups to bond with.”
Yog the Tearful shares a glance with his sorrowful partner and cracks open a wide, vicious smile. “You have no easy job to return to.”
I favour one leg and lean forward. “King Uk prefers public displays of punishment. They will find it difficult to track down and then bring in members of their tribe, who I am certain they will know by name, to face such a fate.” I smirk. “I am certain you would understand this petty, useless sentiment?”
They hold their ground, yet I know from the greening of their faces they wish to do anything but.
---LORD KLAR POV
“Lord! Lord!”
The shouting reaches my ears well before the caller, of course—a naked scribe on one side, a naked assassin on the other. I could make a fuss. Caught as it were in a state of debauchery, most unbecoming for a Lord, yet now I decide is the chance to establish a new normal.
A scuffle of boots and silence alerts me. My messenger is here.
Rising into a sitting position, I expect my messenger to be in a state of shock. Instead, she is licking her lips and tonguing her fangs.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“What?” I ask.
She blinks, craning her head, so her eyes travel the length of my naked body until they meet mine. She swallows. “A party of hobgoblins leading ladened beasts with goblins riding wolves escort them. Lord.”
“Oath Keepers Troop?”
I can hear her breathing. “No, Lord. This one checked with the Oath Keepers helping to finish the wall. They didn’t explain further, but I believe they knew of them, the goblin wolf riders, but didn’t want to share any more about them. Instead of wasting time with them, I ran to report.”
“How much time before they arrive?”
“Spotted as soon as they left forest cover, they approach with caution, so I estimate mid-morning?”
“Good, plenty of time.” I nod slowly, then snap my head up. Our eyes meet. I curl my finger in her direction. She edges closer. Her wild one caution conflicting with my possible granting of a… well, she doesn’t know. “Given your excellent report, name your reward,” I purr.
She swallows while glancing at my two exhausted and naked companions. A blush of green spreads across her face as her eyes examine the ground. Fumbling fingers soon release and assist the slipping down of her leather pants.
---
I leave the three naked bodies behind and make my way to the landward gate. The wild one guard will let the other two know where I have gone, I am certain.
---
“About time you returned. I need to go.”
I chuckle to myself. It looks like she left her partner all alone.
“She…” The partner swivels about in an instant.
She bows her head. Chin resting on her chest. “Lord, excuse my assumption.”
“No. Your assumption would be accurate most of the time. Unfortunately, her failure to return is my fault.” I step through the opening and hear her footsteps closing in behind me.
In the distance, at a leisurely pace, three merchants lead a bovine-like creature each, something which, over a great deal of time, some farmer could breed into a cow or cow-like beast, I would imagine. Beside them, although at a distance to prevent the bovine from bolting, are several wolf-riding goblins. Black leather armour, bows, short swords, and daggers as if they were in an army of some sort, uniform. While the distance is great, my vision is superior, and I examine each in turn, starting with the merchants, who, by any measure, are youths. They shouldn’t be on such a journey. The wolf-riders, though, ride tall on their wolves and have several years of experience or at least living on their faces.
I draw my gaze back to their leader. I feel my heartbeat increase, yet I manage to control my posture…
“An odd bunch, Lord,” says my wild one guard. “Why would wolf riders protect merchants, and why would young merchants venture so far from home?”
“How do you know the merchants are young?”
“They are all skinny merchants. It has been my experience that most travelling merchants are fat.”
I wonder where she gained her experience, but the detail is unimportant. Without asking, strangers position a table and set of chairs beside the gate. After draining a mug of water, someone shortly after completes a refill with a smile.
“Do we have anything stronger?”
“Yes, Lord. Town Mead? Luda’s Sunshine? Northern Crisp?”
Luda’s Sunshine? My Luda? She tended to bees, so perhaps? Does that make her name the more famous of all my wives?
“Luda’s Sunshine.”
“An excellent choice, Lord.”
I glance back to catch the infectious smile of one of my hobgoblins. Not a wild one, no. She wears a long-sleeved white linen dress, which falls to her ankles. On second thoughts…
“And who are you?”
“I am permitted to be here. I have proof!” Her voice reaches a high pitch as she reaches for and then thrusts a parchment in front of my face. I note the signature. Signed by Chief Scribe Solgia of Klar Manor on behalf of Lord Klar.
The beginnings of commerce? Unexpected, yet I kick myself for not realising the potential, as I note there is a monthly rent at a fixed rate and a requirement to pay a portion of the profits for a tavern. In underline, we forbid the business from offering accommodation of any sort. Interesting.
“And what is the name of your tavern?”
“I would like to name my tavern after you, Lord. Perhaps, ‘The Lord’s Tankard’?”
I wink. “Wouldn’t ‘Klar’s Tankard’ sound better?”
Her hands fiddle about, and she forces a smile. “Of course, Lord, as you suggest.”
“Why do you prefer the first?” I stare at the top of her head until the silence coaxes her to look up.
“Lord… I don’t want to be disrespectful.”
“Do so. Take your best shot,” I offer.
“Erm, right? There will always be a Lord of the Manor. The name of the Lord can change, or the name of the Lord could belong to anyone else.” Her face flushes bright green. “Lord, there is a rumour only, I assure you, which suggests you have possibly fathered many children and if true, which mother wouldn’t name their child after such an important father? ‘The Lord’s Tankard’ on the Lord of the Manor’s land can mean nothing less than where the Lord of the Manor could drink. Lord.”
I eye the table and the chairs. “Perhaps we should pack the table and chairs away.” Her face drops. “I will instruct the guard at the gate to direct our visitors to your Tavern where a fine drink can be had and hopefully a warm heath is available.”
“Yes, Lord. Most generous.”
A gaggle of servants? Staff? Whoever they are, they approach us. She waves them back. I escort her to her tavern, which, to my surprise, stands outside the walls of the manor fort. The Tavern is impressive. The word large comes to mind—logs of wood for walls, bark shingles on the roof.
“Who is your sponsor?”
“Lord?” Her hands return to their writhing tangle.
I grab her shoulders and stare her down. “Sponsor?”
“I am sworn not to say, Lord.”
“Hold your silence, and my soldiers will knock your tavern down.”
“But…” She waves her paper in front of my eyes.
Crossing my arms, I stand in her way. “I will compensate you for any loss. Blame my Chief Scribe for overstepping and punish her.”
“Clan Head Durlarg, Lord. He just wanted the local gossip, nothing more, he assured me.”
“Is that all? Lead on and let us leave this unpleasantness behind us over a mug of mead or two while we wait for our first visitors.”
Her bottom lip quivers. “Yes, Lord” She then pushes open the door, and I follow her in. The bar runs the width of the building, with at least a couple of rooms behind. I assume for stores. Reaching the bar, the servant behind places two mugs of mead on the smooth polished wood surface.
“Did she read your mind, or do you have a secret signal?” I smirk.
Her hand leaps from her mug as if burnt. “No, Lord, a simple hand signal, I assure you.”
We sip and wait in silence.
---
A commotion outside the Tavern warns us, so we straighten to receive our guests.
A goblin warrior accompanies each of the three merchants. I note their escorts push the three youths through their hesitation by using the tip of a dagger. They bow low before me, and only when I grunt do they stand again.
“What do you offer my Manor and me?”
“Quality bronze weapons, Lord,” answers the shortest of the three.
“We have enough weapons. What about the animals which carry your goods?”
The three share multiple looks. “W… What about them, Lord?”
“Are they for sale?”
We continue bartering, and to say I could have wrung out an unfavourable deal, benefiting myself, would have been an understatement. They knew weapon prices as if schooled beforehand, but any deviation from that, and they guessed. We sealed the deal with light conversation over mugs of mead and then strolled towards the door, stepping out into the late afternoon sunlight. The first in several days, but as I looked up, I thought, this will be a brief respite. The setting sun had sunk beneath the clouds, but the dark clouds remained, covering most of the valley.
A familiar presence sent a shiver down my spine. I instantly swivel around, causing the three merchants to yelp in surprise. They stand frozen in place, uncertain of my intent, I assume. Off in the distance, yet making a beeline towards us, ride three goblin wolf riders. The lead rider, though, is who my gaze settles on.
A chuckle. “You are the first of many goblins or hobgoblins to be so enamoured at a distance,” says one of the goblin escorts.
“Yes, normally you must shake her hand,” says another.
“Who is she?” I ask, my gaze not leaving the source of my discomfort.
“Our wolf rider leader, Milga Stone Blood the Fifth, of course.”
My stomach twists and churns at the mention of her name, ‘Milga Stone Blood’. She should have been my wife, yet she rejected any such notion, happy to make her our way. I shake my head. The fifth is the clue.
“What happened to the First, Second, Third and Fourth?”
Again, a chuckle. “Know that the First founded our settlement. The Second was a surprise. She claimed to be Milga Stone Blood reborn, which, of course, is impossible. Yet, if what they wrote is true, her likeness to the first was uncanny. While many snickered behind her back, only near death did she conceive of a contest, a way for an exceptional goblin wolf rider to assume our founders’ name and earnt name. By the time of her death, although many still didn’t believe her Milga Stone Blood, the Second had earnt her place and much respect.”
Another adding, “Hence we have a competition every three years, and sometimes none win, and they proclaimed no one Milga Stone Blood.”
I can’t reconcile this feeling of Deja Vue to a competition winner with the supposed skills to match the former founder. This is more than a feeling. This is a joyful sensation, the reunion of two long-lost friends. I am glad all those with me are behind me, as I am sure my face is betraying me. Will she feel as I do?
Wait. How is this possible? My co-conspirator in space mentioned the birth of those who ‘see the light’ on special, rare planets. Was such an occurrence too soon in the evolution of this planet, or did this happen along the way and only when discovered by humans and their stolen technology did they reap the various spirits? Would they accept a goblin spirit into the GPA?
Humans showed an interest in and had been on this planet before. The mining face of the cliff, the machinery footprints in the mountains on either side of the valley… the spacesuit armour were three proofs. Did this landfall pre-date the ‘agreement’? Did they begin mineral extraction while ignoring the native species, in this case, goblins? They didn’t complete the mining operation, so perhaps this planet’s fate was caught in the middle, free game at first and then shut down because of the new rules, simply because the planet had intelligent inhabitants? Then given to the GPA to watch.
What is the Shifter interest in this planet? They re-directed my future here to ensure I would, what? Disrupt the GPA’s plans for this planet? Lead the goblins on a faster technology development path? Moving them from tribal to agricultural would naturally increase their population. A more significant population would, in theory, on a percentage basis, improve the chances of another native ‘seeing the light’. Given Human use, although unknowingly, of Shifter technology for the GPA, it would stand to reason the Shifters themselves could use their technology-mystic mix to a higher degree or greater extent. Does that mean they identified an importance beyond typical on this planet, hence their presence? I mean, they even positioned their ship, one of one or one of many, I wonder, in orbit to capture my spirit…
Where does Milga fit into this plan? Say I repress my ego for a moment and don’t assume this planet’s story starts with my arrival. What if Milga is/was the true anomaly? What if Milga is/was the first or near first to ‘see the light’ on this planet? She didn’t need to believe or disbelieve my Spirit capture ceremony. Milga always professed to be an outsider in the Flint Arrows tribe, a tribe where family dictated power and position. When asked, she attached herself to me because ‘anyone who can survive her arrows, survive being smashed in the chest by a tree trunk’ would hold a specific potential beyond the normal, and she wanted to collect her share or words to that effect. Was that instead a sign to her? Were they given to her by the Shifters? After all, they would have detected Milga long before the GPA would have. The GPA’s efforts tried to lock this planet down and stifle development by placing Hob overlords over the goblins. They probably weren’t even searching for any potential new GPAs. Do the Shifters want to make this planet their new planet? Not theirs, but perhaps an additional source of their ‘magic’ or, at the very least, spirits that ‘see the light’, which they can manipulate? My head hurts, yet worse than that, I can almost make out the facial details of the three wolf riders.
I swivel and head into the tavern, calling over my shoulder, “Send in Milga Stone Blood the Fifth, alone or not at all. I believe we have one or two things to discuss.”
The tavern owner tries to follow me in, and I wave her away. After grabbing a jar of Luda’s Sunshine and two mugs, I settle at a four-chair table, my back to the door. I pour one and take a sip.
---
The door creaks open. Is this the first time or the first time there has been silence enough to hear the noise? Why are trivial things important now? Her footfalls are near silent, yet this is her natural gait, I am sure. Her body flashes past mine to take the chair opposite. She pours herself a drink and takes a sip. Her eyes glisten and dance—mischief greets me.
From the moment she entered the tavern, I have been certain.
“Well met Lord Farmer Hob. Have your wives followed you?”
How does she know the spirit link could bind them to me beyond death? Was her knowledge the actual reason, the true source behind her cheekiness? She knew a secret I didn’t.
“What is your number, truly?”
She pours another drink. “You should be proud of Luda. Of all your wives, she has gifted my world with a true legacy.” She raises her mug, and I can’t help but meet it with my own.
“Perhaps you need to meet her. She needs all the accolades she deserves.”
“I congratulate you on your new start, especially the number of pregnancies.” Her salacious grin causes me to shift in my chair. “Without even knowing anything more, the fact one male fathered them all would be enough to make me suspicious, yet sitting opposite you now confirms Lord Klar, Lord Klug, and Lord Farmer Hob are all one and the same.”
“The fifth?” I parry back.
“Yes, and no. I died and had an impossible dream. I was told things to convince me otherwise and advised to seek out someone unique and hang on for the ride. The first me was a naive young daughter of a Flint Arrows family, wiped out by a raiding party. Given up for dead, half a day later, I woke up. My spirit had returned to my choked-to-death body.”
I take a drink. “So, how did you die?”
She flashes a broad cheeky smile. “Old age!” She then cackles while slapping the table.
“What’s so funny?”
“I outlived all your wives.”
I tilt my head. “Rexa? Luda?”