---LORD TORNGUL HEARTSPLITTER POV
“You are a difficult Clan Head to meet with, my dear Sakvorpa.”
Her bare feet shuffle as she stands before me, as far away as my throne room allows. Four of my Honour Guard stand behind her. She ignored my verbal summons by messenger, then my order on parchment, and finally, the personal invitation delivered by my Major Domo Dorgrav. I almost felt insulted, hence sending four of my Honour Guard to fetch the bitch.
“You offer no excuses?” I add with a growl, certain she would have begged amongst her closest friends and allies for help or advice. She would have found, though, as it took me some time to realise that mischief is acceptable until you get caught. That was the trick: never leave evidence or witnesses. While not all the Clan Heads knew what each other did, they all knew that they played a dangerous game because they all sort to increase their power and wealth. Unfortunately for Clan Head Sakvorpa, I have the confession of a spy of hers, who now serves Lord Hob and was more than willing to share the secrets of this wretch before me.
“I… it takes much effort to keep the town clean. The goblins are more rebellious than ever. One of my daughters tried to betray me, Lord. I have been trying to recover… my family… it has been difficult.” Her tears spring forth on cue. As silence engulfs us, her legs shake underneath her simple dress of linen, and she falls to her knees.
“The goblins are rebellious because you have so few and work them to near death. Your family is disloyal because you play them against each other and throw the winner scrapes of authority to trample the losers until the winner loses your favour, and you begin the game anew.”
Her head shakes from side to side in an uncontrolled panic. “No, Lord. Whoever speaks against me is lying. They are a jealous liar. I am loyal, Lord, as is my family.”
“Do you know what happened after you arrived before me?”
“No,” she squeaks.
“Two of my Honour Guard in the company of guards from your fellow Clan Heads approached your manor and announced your downfall. Calling on your Clan to capture and surrender all those of your family tree and any others they thought were still loyal to you.”
Her mouth drops. Then the jaw tries to work. I lounge back into my throne. After several heartbeats, she gasps, “Lord?”
“I thought, like you. Some token resistance. At least a minor skirmish, hence the additional guards, but nothing of the sort. Like presents, your Clan trussed up each member of your family and delivered them at the feet of my Honour Guard. A gawking crowd shortly after gathered and grew to witness this most bizarre event and became more of a problem than your Clan.”
“All my family?”
“Yes. Fortunately, we placed guards at the four hidden exits from your manor.”
“Four?” she squeaks yet again.
“Oh yes, you don’t know, do you?” I slap my thigh and chuckle. “One of your family ran a side business and needed to sneak out without being noticed. What better way than to build their own secret exit?”
With newfound strength in her voice, she asks, “How did you find out about them?”
Did her need to know override her fear?
“When I sent a message to each of the Clan Heads requesting their guards to assist, I mentioned loyalty and the ramifications of disloyalty. For example, if one or more of your family escaped by some unknown means, then I would assume one of the Clan Heads gave them a warning. If you suddenly fortified your manor or fled, same.”
Her face scrunches up. “But how would you know? Which Clan Head?”
“I assumed you, like they, would have spies in other Clans, and I would offer your spies an amnesty to become my spies. Plus, I assumed they would want their spies to survive your demise, because if you didn’t accept my invitation this time, I would have marched to your manor in person and set the whole place to fire.”
A deep, long swallow, and she replies, “To fire? In the heart of Hobgoblin Town, it could have easily spread…”
I strum my fingers on the armrest of my throne. “Yes, a high cost, but disloyalty is like a disease, worse.”
She throws herself towards me, prostrate and blubbering. “We… I… thought you were different. I see now that your thick-headed warrior, hunt-loving, the beast-riding brain was a ruse.” She almost spoke her last words to herself. She tries to sit up while wiping the tears and snot from her face using her forearm. “I will be loyal, Lord Torngul, fearlessly so. You will never need to doubt me again, I promise.” Her eyes find mine. “Lord?”
I lean forward and rise from my throne. The pitiful creature before me, face awash with tears and snot, long loose tresses of hair in an untidy bird’s nest, pleads for mercy. I drop to my haunches, and my finger lifts her chin until our eyes meet at close range. “You, my dear Sakvorpa, are my example. To allow you a reprieve or a concession would embolden instead of warning the other Clan Heads of my newfound decisiveness. I can’t allow that.” I flick my gaze towards my honour guard and back to my former Clan Head.
A pinpoint glint off thin metal, my only warning as my hand darts out to catch her wrist. A dripping needlepoint hovers a finger width from the side of my neck. She screams in pain, and only then do I realise I have crushed her wrist; such is my anger. Then silence, except for a wet thump hitting the floor of my throne room. Her wide-open dead eyes look up at me from her decapitated head.
“Apologies, Lord Torngul. We thoroughly searched her, made her remove all her clothes and gave her a simple dress from this manor to wear. She must have secreted the poison needle in her hair, Lord.”
“Well, I guess I can’t hang her with the rest of her family now,” I lament.
A cough. “Use a short spear, Lord. Stake head to body and then suspend using rope under her arms,” offers my third Honour Guard.
Not the same, I think to myself—such a shame.
Turning away from the mess, I slide back onto my throne and lounge on the ample cushions. I only have one life now, and to protect me and mine, I have accepted I will need to be ruthless for a time. Difficult at first and contrary to the nature of Zeb Stone Grim, as I like to remember him, but I made a choice. Instead of deflecting punishment like a stone and the memories of Suda berating me, come to mind. I embrace grim determination and will deal it out until law and order become the new normal.
---LORD KLAR POV
“Rexa wasn’t your wife. She was Jotor’s creation, and anyhow she cheated. It was one thing of several I admired about Zoria. She could have cheated, yet didn’t.” Milga slides her mug about on the table. She opens her mouth to speak and then shakes her head as if trying to set her following words free. “Luda lived, but her mind died years before from grief, first her father and then Koria. You mentioning she needs accolades only convinces me further that even reborn, she is still volatile, shall we say?”
I cough. “What do you mean, ‘was Jotor’s creation’ when you mentioned Rexa?”
“Oh, haven’t you been told? Rexa, High Priestess of Klug, has died.”
“Died? Why? How?”
She cackles again. “Old age! Then turning to dust if the rumours are true, although she has a holy grave so worshippers can pay their respects, of course, for a fee.”
How does this change things for the Oath Keepers? Do they still want to march on the valley and conquer the Klugites?
“And you want to hear the kicker, Lord Hob?”
I am numb yet manage to nod.
“The new High Priestess of Klug is Naro. She is an Oath Keeper!” Laughing hard, she almost falls off her chair.
I stand and push my chair back, causing it to tip over and clatter on the floor. “This isn’t funny.” I pace. “I have a village of Oath Keeper goblins across the river expecting several mercenary troops to join them shortly and march off on a glorious campaign of blessed murder and mayhem.”
“Oh, Lord Hob, don’t you see Zoria’s genius? She outsmarted Rexa by diverting her attention away from her Oath Keeper Priests. She even invited one to the High Priestess ceremony! All because, like everyone else, she thought the mercenary troops were the threat. But we can ask her, can’t we? Zoria?”
I stop pacing, lean over, and reset my chair beside the table. Sliding in, I try to gather my thoughts.
“Maybe not.”
“Zoria? You, Spirit linked her early, rejected her. I am certain you didn’t free her like the others while dying…”
“How did you know to come here?”
She leans back in her chair, and her eyes study my face. I feel their intensity, yet I am certain I give nothing away. “What have you done?”
“She’s dead.”
Milga slaps the table. “How could you? Your other wives were the runts in the herd. She was the important one. I should kill you now so you can return and bring Zoria with you.” Her face flushes green, while a vein pops out on her neck.
“Won’t do any good. I freed her first.” Why do I feel so small? How was I to know which of my wives were the more important… although none had a village and several mercenary troops of goblins named after them? Probably a strong hint. I couldn’t let her go with her son. That would have been a bigger disaster. Surely?
Elbows on the table, Milga’s head rests in her hands. “Where did your wits go?”
Before I can calm him, my body is in motion. As my eyes clear, I hold Milga high by the throat against the tavern’s wall. She tries to talk yet can’t draw a breath. I allow her to slide down and release my grip. Staggering back, I say, “Sorry.”
She is rubbing her throat as her eyes bore into me. Betrayal? Threat? She coughs. “He is still in you?”
“How do you know about him?”
“Several journeys ‘into the light’ make someone somewhat sensitive to spirits occupying bodies not originally their own. He, for example, started from nothing. I couldn’t detect him, in fact. Next, I envision a blaze of red engulfing you, and I am slammed high against the wall.” She swallows and throws down a gulp of mead. “He is the original Hob, isn’t he? The one you stole the hobgoblin body from?”
“Yes.” I place my now empty mug on the table and quickly refill it. “I thought he would leave me between returns, but he hasn’t and is, as you have now witnessed, easily offended on my behalf. He is also the one who perpetuates my almost endless sex drive, so in some ways, I would be sorry to lose him.”
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
She takes her seat but sits at arm’s length from the table. “It would have been useful to interview Zoria. She lasted longest with Rexa and was easily the closest to her for most of that time of all your wives. I apologise for my rash statement. I am certain your decision to release her wasn’t without significant deliberation.” She massages her neck once again and takes a sip of mead.
Is this her guilting me? Trying to extract the reason? I don’t see the harm in explaining, even though it may sound like I am making an excuse.
“She reunited with her son.”
Milga leans forward. “Her first son? But that would mean…”
“Yes. He was over two hundred years old, and while the years slowed him down, he had drunk my almost pure blood since he was an infant. His mother’s milk, in fact. So unlike Rexa or even Zoria, who drank my blood as adults, it preserved his body from birth.” I rock my mug, staring into the mead, looking for wisdom. “She wanted to reconnect with him, travel with him. Support him and the faithful to overthrow Rexa.”
Milga stands and leans against the wall, leaving her mug on the table. The way she does this takes me back to my cottage on The Farm. Casual, yet confident. Despite my slamming her against the wall, she feels safe; I am sure. We are old friends meeting once again, renewing our bond of friendship.
“That tells me enough. She didn’t have plans. She left behind opportunities. Hopeful one would bring about Rexa’s downfall. I gave her too much credit. But what are we left with now?” Her eyes lock onto mine.
“Whatever the new High Priestess decides, I would guess. I have three watching the entrance to the valley for the mercenary troops. Forewarned is better than surprise.”
She pushes off the wall, and the flat of her hands land on the table. “I think I may have met them.”
I lean back. “Two hobgoblins and a goblin.”
“One hobgoblin, an apprentice? The goblin, plain nasty?”
I chuckle. “The nasty goblin is Luda.” Milga tries to draw a breath and gags. She paces until her breathing returns. “She has earnt a name. Care to know it?” I offer.
She turns on me, her eyes blazing, her jaw set. With a stiff nod to me, I guess the answer is yes.
“Luda Bloodstalker.”
I witness Milga shiver. “Yes. That suits her,” she says in a quiet voice. “I felt conversation from her point of view was an unnecessary delay to start the killing.”
“Duzsia the Relentless was in charge, and she had one of my recent additions as an apprentice.”
Standing and nodding, she wanders off. “I left some of my troop behind to do the same thing. The mercenary troops, at least two, entered the valley and then left. I don’t know why, except to say there are rumoured to be six, although one has been missing for a generation, so expect five.”
“What are your plans now?” I ask.
“Return to Stone Corner and wait. Oh, purchase the ugly-looking weapons from the merchants. They are Stone Blood steel disguised under a poor copper wash. Also, maybe next time, make your way to Stone Corner when you return. A bit late now, given what you have established, but in the future. I should always be there or growing up there, but not yet, Milga.”
“You return to one of your family lines?”
“That has been the case so far. My dream voice explained that fate had locked my spirit to this world. They didn’t explain if they had done this or if it was how it worked. But my spirit returns to a newborn of my line, and then I must wait until I mature, win the naming contest, and discover what has happened in my absence.”
I chuckle. “You created the naming contest to increase your chances of winning? You cheat.”
Her face blushes green. “If it makes you feel any better, each time I return, the competition improves. Remember, they need to finish, and one of my troop did this round, but the last challenge is to answer a question only I know the answer to. In the between years, though, another could be declared the winner because they finished, and I would then die without my name and the power that goes with it.”
Scrunching up my face, I ask, “How would they know the answer to your question?”
She reaches inside her leather armour and draws out a silver medallion of exquisite craftmanship, hanging from a delicate steel chain about her neck. “This is one of an identical pair, which fits together. I hide the second once I win the competition, and the future winner must find it and match it to the one kept after my death.”
“I don’t see the problem?”
She cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t see the problem?” She refills and takes a long draw of mead. “Someone has years to search for the second medallion. Then they only need to win the competition or, for certain concessions, hand the medallion off to the winner.”
“Why not set the minimum time at sixteen years? That way, you should be adult enough to compete with no chance for anyone else in between to get lucky.”
She slumps into her chair and sips her mead. “Possibly. I haven’t tried to change the competition, and I am uncertain I can now since the details are part of our legends.” She sighs. “I will just have to cope with the fact I could lose my name one day.”
Time to ask about more important matters. “Do you know where the armour is?”
She grunts and her eyes leave off staring into her mug. “Rexa’s sons always wore it, but as the generations passed, Rexa became less trusting of her relatives. The general view is that the armour is in a safe place and will only be worn again when there is a great need. Like the original use when the Klugites won that glorious victory in the valley by sallying forth from the gates of Head Village. I would assume High Priestess Naro would now be the owner.”
I strum my fingers on the table.
“What?” asks Milga.
“High Priestess Naro took the position. I wonder if there was a handover. The armour could be in a place no one or few know about. If the Oath Keeper goblins return to the valley, wouldn’t they be welcome? There wouldn’t be a need for the armour.”
“Unfortunately, this is all guesswork. So, I will take my leave.” She drains her mug. “Buy the weapons.” I nod. “I can then hurry my merchants and patrol back to Stones Corner and wait to see what the horde of Oath Keeper goblins will do.”
---DUZSIA THE RELENTLESS POV
A yelp. Vorlora? I unsheathe my sword as I bolt towards what I think is the source of the call. Leading with an arm before my face, I crash through several low-hanging branches, reaching a clearing. On the far edge, I spot Vorlora sitting up, picking at cords binding her legs. I notice the three balls attached to those same cords as an afterthought.
I swivel about as Luda’s laughter reaches my ears. “You can’t use my apprentice for your practice!” I screech while storming towards her, raising my sword for a downward strike.
She raises her hands in mock surrender. Her smile is full of teeth. “I needed a moving target with two legs…”
“I agreed, Mistress,” Vorlora calls out.
The heat in my anger quells, yet… “Why would you agree to such a thing? The last we knew, the balls hit Luda in the head more than they found their target.” I change direction and jog towards my apprentice.
“That was before,” offers Luda, now on my heels.
Vorlora is almost free. The balls are now black. The leather throngs are also dark. “Before what?”
“Before I painted them with my blood. As they drew more of my blood with each mishap, I could sense them like a limb. This led to adjustments, refinement, and, finally, control. Your apprentice is proof.”
Vorlora’s lower legs have stout sticks bound to them, several of which are broken in two or three places. I reach for one and pluck it free of the bindings. After an inspection, I hold the piece in front of Vorlora. “And this?”
“Precaution, Mistress. The balls are solid, and if unlucky, armour or not, a strike on bone may be enough to cause a fraction or worse, shattering.”
I slap the back of her head. “What if the balls struck your upper legs?”
“Luda assured me her aim would be true,” she whimpers.
I straighten and face down Luda. Her smile doesn’t fade, regardless of my intimidation.
“She’s fine,” she retorts while picking up the topknot of the cords binding to each ball. My apprentice jumps to her feet to prove to me, I suspect, that no harm was done.
“What of the troops? Which of you two have been scouting for them, given your game?”
I sense Vorlora shift to my side and hear her quick intake of breath. Luda glances towards her and then returns her attention to me.
“They are half a day out, almost across the plains. I suspect the five troops will soon make night camp on the edge of this forest.”
My arms shape to, but I restrain myself from throttling her skinny neck. “Why didn’t you report as soon as you spotted them?” I grind out the words between my teeth.
A hand massages my forearm. “We have sent a missive to Hobgoblin Town, Mistress, warning of their coming.” Another hand joins the first. “We thought you needed rest, and knowing before or later wouldn’t make any difference. I am sorry… if I have disappointed you.”
I stab a finger towards Luda. She takes a quick step back before I poke her chest. “I assume your idea?”
She grins. “Mutual, yes mutual, I would say. They crawl towards us, and we have checked on them from time to time and in between, I practice with a willing target.”
“How many?”
“That is the interesting part. Two troops more or less march together, while two others follow a third.”
“A minor falling out?” I offer.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Tell her of the other news!” The excitement in my apprentice’s voice is plain.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Other news?”
Luda resumes, “Yes, it seems our wolf riders and their merchants have returned and joined the ones left behind. They watch the goblin troops like us, but from on high now. Taking cover in the lower reaches of the mountains marking the southern side of the valley.” Her arm waves about in their general direction.
They haven’t approached us, although they couldn’t have returned for more than a day at most, perhaps too soon. I eye the sky. Dark clouds are accumulating, so rain can’t be too far off. “Vorlora, scout the troops, stay on watch until you see them make camp, and then return. Luda and I will prepare our camp for rain.”
“And our last hot meal,” adds Luda.
---
“You can show yourself now,” I say into the black of night. My watch path has deliberately strayed away from our camp to ensure this possibility.
“Lord Farmer Hob’s confidence and pride in you are well deserved, I see.” A black shape strolls towards me without weapons drawn.
“Well met, Milga Stone Blood.”
“What happened to the Fifth?” she retorts with fake hurt, a hand on her chest.
“I have given that much thought. Your confidence and the loyalty of your scouts hint at much more. Mentioning his name sweeps away any of my doubt.” I return her embrace.
Light rain falls on our faces.
A nightbird hoots, and we are still in each other’s arms. Her journey is much longer than mine, of course. I am like the interloper; she is like the constant returning presence. Our embrace is an affirmation, two servants of Lord Hob, each contributing in our way, able to share and console.
“While I didn’t expect you two to be fighting, I didn’t expect this either.”
Luda, of course. Yet Milga and I don’t spring apart in embarrassment or look for words to explain.
“Well?” says Luda.
I fling an arm out towards Luda. Milga, a heartbeat later, does the same. We both stare at Luda. She looks behind her. Her posture melts. Square shoulders relax. Her hands release the hilts of her daggers to join and entwine. We wriggle our fingers at her. Like a cautious beast or long-lost pet, she takes a step forward. I flash her a broad welcoming smile and feel the warmth from Milga’s face. While the night is dark, I know Luda’s night vision is superior, and I am confident she misses none of our signals.
Like a dam bursting, she catapults herself into our embrace.
Like a secret whisper on the wind, Milga speaks, “Welcome, Luda Bloodstalker, be at peace with your name and know that I have met Lord Farmer Hob. We resume our allegiance.”
In between cold raindrops, several warm ones fall. None of us mentions the anomaly.
“Milga?”
I hear and feel Milga release a long breath. This time her embrace loosens, yet I sense Luda resisting the attempt.
“I must attend to her, Luda. She is of my present life,” whispers Milga, her voice heavy with regret.
Even I feel for Luda. The intrusion cuts her embrace short. Again, she misses out. As Milga slips away, I sense Luda’s muscles bunch, preparing. My grip on her body now crushes her against mine while I release Milga. A quiet, hurtful yelp. The pain isn’t from my physical abuse of Luda, and while for a moment I think she may draw a dagger on me, I dismiss the improbable betrayal. Regardless of her pain, she wouldn’t go that far.
Milga reaches her follower. Morraga? Luda melts into my embrace, her warm tears splashing upon my arm more frequently than the light raindrops.
“Who are they to you?” An accusation? The hurt? Betrayal? All these and more add weight to those few words.
“I am the fifth.” Milga’s hands caress her follower’s cheeks; thumbs wipe away unseen tears. “I sensed I knew them the first time we met, hence my risk-taking. Now, after meeting their Lord, I am as certain as they are. Their blood is as familiar to me as their previous selves, as mine is to them. I don’t have the words to explain how we know and trust each other after generations.”
A wet sniff. “Are you leaving us for them?”
Milga’s embrace of Morraga is as intense as mine is of Luda.
“No. This is a reunion to affirm our previous life bonds. They have a different path to follow from ours, but when our paths cross in the future, you can be certain of their favour as they can be certain of ours.”
I catch Morraga’s glance in my direction. “Truly…”
“Yes. I swear so on my blood.” Milga holds Morraga away at arm’s length. “Now, return to our camp. I will follow shortly.”
Morraga studies me. Her night vision is certainly powerful enough to do so, it would seem, even with the unseen dark clouds above us.
“I go, Mistress, yet I and everyone else will return if you linger too long.” With that said, she throws herself out of Milga’s embrace and marches into the night.
Milga returns to us, and while we lose the original moment, Luda giggles like a child as we all gather in a brief embrace.
“Koria isn’t with us. She was, and then she wasn’t,” says Luda in a nervous garble.
“Lord Hob had to release Zoria,” I added.
“She lost the plot,” snipes Luda. I understand her reaction, yet she found her son, which she last saw as a babe, giving him into the care of others.
“Perhaps,” offers Milga. “What of Zeb?”
Luda and I share an all-knowing snickering before I reply, “He is in the body of Torngul Heartsplitter, Lord of the Grassplains and well looked after, although we suspect more than one or two of his Clan Heads wish to assassinate him.”
“At least Lord Hob has two of his best to protect him,” quips Milga.
Luda smiles. Her first in a while, and the pain in her eyes no longer dominates. “What makes you think Lord Hob wouldn’t collect wives like stones on the ground?”
The three of us burst into laughter. Luda and I share the details with Milga while she shares much about her corner of the world.
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