---NARO, HIGH PRIESTESS OF KLUG POV
My hand is on the ornate silver handle, and instead of entering my room, I release the cold metal and stroll towards the balcony. This is where Rexa held her sermons to the great unwashed until her voice failed her. I recognise the efficiency, but this is also a wasted opportunity. She can speak to many about worshipping Lord Klug, but there will always be a distance between her and the faithful. Possible resentment also, as she would have spoken from on high.
With the sun sinking, the cliff casts a cooling shadow over Head Village. A gentle breeze adds to the perfection of this special place, the balcony. Below, the inhabitants of the town scurry about on their business. The barricades and crowds are now clear of the main street to the gate, and hand-pulled carts and groups walk where I walked earlier. Life returns to…
A heartbreaking scream echoes from a side street, and I lean forward over the balcony. The flowing robes of an Oath Keeper Priestess stumbles towards the Temple. Face distraught; one hand points back towards the Oath Keeper Tower. While the distance may challenge most, my eyesight is more than a match. Two defilers have a rope around the neck of the broken, decrepit Oath and are trying to drag his lame body down the outside steps of the tower.
They both halt and stare towards Klug’s Temple. I doubt they can make out my face, yet they know someone is staring at them from the balcony. Yet, what can I do? They are there, and I am here. I shout to the Temple Guards on the streets below, standing at the entrance of the Temple. Both stare up at me. They haven’t yet attended to the Oath Keeper Priestess. Why not? Their eyes find mine as I point towards the Oath Keeper Tower, which, for all its height, is probably out of their line of sight. They return looks of confusion. I stamp a foot.
I glance towards the Oath Keeper Tower. The roof is now in the shade, and I check on the two. They continue to edge forward; the Oath can’t stand, and progress is a backwards drop over the edge of a step. They need all the caution they can muster, for the stairs don’t have a handrail by design. Where are the Oath Keeper Priestesses of the Tower?
Silence. The once screaming Oath Keeper Priestess crashes into the Temple Guards. After a brief exchange of words, they leave her crumpled body and rush inside. I expect my bodyguard to be running out… Where are they? There is still time; there must be. The Oath must remain a live prisoner in the Tower. The arrangement is not a convenience. Imprisonment unbroken is the essence of our being. What are we if they take the Oath from us?
I swivel about in frustration, flinging my arms in all directions. How can I be so helpless? I stub my toe, and a yelp dies in my throat as I pick up the obstacle of my agony. I blow into the narrow end, and a mighty blast releases across the Town from the wider exit. To my satisfaction, the Guards at the Main Gate close off that means of escape. Several Ten Spears show themselves from Inns, Barracks, and wherever else they while away their time, and I point towards the Oath Keeper Tower. Fortunately, some are smarter than others, realise there is only one place of importance in that direction, and run off immediately to do my bidding.
I check on the kidnappers as glee builds in my heart. Instead, my mouth open, eyes wide, I witness the impossible. I drop to my knees, my head in my hands. Before my eyes, the Oath fell from the tower, and I couldn’t look until the end. Did I frighten him with the horn blast? Did he wrestle with his captors, or were they distracted by the horn blast giving the Oath a moment? My hand slaps the edge of the balcony rail as I drag my shattered self to stand and once again observe. The two peering down, now look towards me. They shrug and then display an insulting single finger in my direction. My hands grip the balcony, and I am sure I loosen a tile as I rage internally.
It is then that multiple sources of heavy breathing reach my ears, and I swivel about. My bodyguard, heaving, sucking in air, crowd towards me.
I scream at them, “Why are you here and not over there?” I point towards the Oath Keeper Tower. “An Oath Keeper Priestess dies on the steps of Lord Klug’s Temple, and you think you need to check on me?”
They disappear from my sight. My last words chase them. “Bring them back to me alive. I need answers!”
I drop to my haunches. The Oath has died before, and he returned in a matter of days. Not as a goblin, like the first time, but as a hobgoblin. That was a natural death at the end of an endless life. Not a sudden, unexpected death… Does that mean something beyond our understanding? I have read all the books and paid attention to all the teachings. Others have written nothing about this circumstance. A new chapter to an existing book, or perhaps a new book, is about to be scribed.
I drag myself away from the incredible to the present. Why didn’t the Oath Keeper Priestesses defend the tower? They wait on the third floor with a single trapdoor as an entry point. Six Priestesses bunk there, two on watch each shift. They protect the doorway to the outside steps. If all else is lost, they collapse the roof above them. The rocks held there, on what would typically be the fourth floor, are supposed to tumble down on the trapdoor, killing anyone standing there and filling the floor. This should also close off access to the doorway to the outside steps. I don’t understand how the two defilers could be on the steps.
What about the Oath Keeper on the fifth floor? She watches the Oath but also the steps. Those on the third floor would have rung the warning bell, and with her position and footing secure in the room, she should easily defeat one or more trying to edge their way up the outside steps. A simple push with a spear and they will fall to their death.
The real defence, though, is the door to the fifth level. Hidden, and unless you know where to look, any attacker will continue climbing the outside steps until they reach the roof. Then what? Everything is a delaying tactic until a barracks of Ten Spears arrive. They either use archery to strike non-Priestesses exposed on the outside steps or roof or charge into the tower to defeat any attackers. But somehow, all this failed…
---LORD TORNGUL HEARTSPLITTER POV
A whispering question reaches my ears. “Why bring the family, Lord husband?”
I spare my love a warm, appreciating look. A bellow from my beast breaks the moment, of course. “I thought that debate was done?”
“Look ahead at the hovel of goblin cottages that awaits us, the mud on the ground, the un-ending drizzle and spare a thought for Shaza, who is now separated from her betrothed and Zinia, who...”
My youngest daughter’s light, fun-filled laughter is in complete contrast to what my wife thought to bring to my attention. My Honour Guard and my youngest had kept company on the trail before when I utilised Zinia as my messenger. None believe the young are competent. Instead, they mention a lack of purpose or discretion and are only tolerated. Maybe Zinia is my attempt at a better Luda… A pang of guilt shreds my soul. How can a father compare true blood to adoption?
“What husband? Second thoughts?”
I shake my head and hopefully remove the dark thoughts from my face. “No. Both need to attend to their sister. A miracle if the midwife is to be believed by surviving the spitting out of three healthy sons.”
“I still have doubts… but we are not far now from the truth.”
Doubt. I also have doubt, except Lord Klug is the father, and it is fatal to underestimate any of his actions and always worth the risk. Hobgoblin Town is unsettled because of the toppling of Clan Head Sakvorpa. My remaining Honour Guard is to keep the peace while the other Clan Heads discuss the division of the spoils. I am confident they won’t reach an accord, and I will be required. Until then, they can bicker while I confirm or dismiss the eager-eyed report from a midwife equally in awe of her craft and the mother to enable such a mother with triplets to survive childbirth.
Our beasts saunter through the Goblin Village, and while the residents pay due respect with slight bows, they are proud of their lineage and unbroken dedication as Oath Keepers. Wading the ford is a simple task while riding, and although I keep an eye on Shaza and especially Zinia, given her smaller beast, they cross as quickly as everyone else. I note that one of my Honour Guard, in particular, pays careful attention to Zinia. The sly discrete smirks of the other Honour Guards suggest a more profound secret.
We don’t make the main gate.
Lord Klar, Izga to the left and a female hobgoblin in fine linen robes on the right wait for us on the sodden dirt path ahead, which would otherwise lead us to the gate.
---
My Honour Guards are at a table close to the door, for Lord Klar has invited us into a large building beside the path. Scrawled on the sign above the door, “The Lord’s Tankard”, the owner was more than welcoming, hastening to join tables to accommodate our families.
“So, considering I am the ranking Lord at this table, is the Inn named after me?”
Lord Klar’s mug hovers halfway to his mouth as he takes an appreciating glance at the swishing buttocks of the departing tavern owner.
“Perhaps.”
After introductions, we leave the ladies. He convinces me, as the Lords of the Tavern, we should do a duty to order the drinks for our table. Instead of returning, we occupy the lonely end of the bar, and he informs me of many things. My brain freezes when he says Thalgora is my daughter, Koria, returned. I vaguely catch his explanation… my real daughter returns to me. He turns to leave, and I absently grab at his shoulder.
“One of my reasons for riding here in person.” I hand him a sliver of parchment.
After carefully unfurling the fragile note and reading the contents, he curtly nods and strolls away.
“What note would the Lord of the Grassplains need to hand off to the Lord of mud hill?”
The smoothness and innocence of her voice are a perfect mix, as I almost thought the question reasonable. Instead, I blink. Grabbing her neck, I hoist her body over the stout wooden bar separating us.
“I would suggest a Tavern Keeper who wishes to take another breath forgets what she saw, which means she can report to no one, especially your benefactor. Since I left him bickering with the other Clan Heads late yesterday afternoon, I am certain I could grant him a minor advantage. In exchange, I am equally certain he would end his agreement with you and perhaps you as well.”
Her struggles subside, and I spare her a glance. Her face is almost black. I release my grip. An immediate inhale of air, then a sobering nod as tears run down her cheeks.
“I wish to serve someone more important than a Clan Head.” Her voice is steady regardless of my violence. Her eyes find mine and lock on, radiant, beguiling. A loud slap breaks her hold over me.
“He is mine, wench,” snarls my wife.
The Tavern Keeper is in retreat, sliding away using her polished wooden bar for support while her other hand nurses one side of her face.
My wife presses her lips onto mine, and I return the reward with gusto. Hand in hand, we return to our table as if nothing has happened, and none mention the incident. In the middle of one of many conversations, I lean towards Lord Klar and say, “Escape tunnel. Ensure you, yourself, or those you trust with your life dig the tunnel. Sakvorpa had four, of which she only knew about three. There is a lesson there as well, but at least dig one. No point being Lord of your manor and dying there for lack of an escape.”
“I will,” he replies.
His quiet reserve is unnerving, yet I push on with my warnings. “Five hundred Goblin Oath Keeper mercenaries are on their way, and most, if not all of the nubile Oath Keeper female goblins are already pregnant.” I spare Lord Klar a vicious smile. “They may wish to release their pent-up frustration in another way.”
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
He returns my smile with a distracting warmth. His assassin and scribe are competing for his attention. The soft leather armour on one is losing out to the full, although readily accessible, robes on the other.
“Lord Klar, I would think it proper that you keep your pets in their place while in the company of Lord Torngul, your Lord and benefactor.”
I resist the urge to defend Zinia as she said nothing that shouldn’t have been raised if the relationship between Lord Klar and I was normal. Izga goes from slithering over Lord Klar to slinking along the length of the table towards Lord Torngul’s or my youngest daughter. The scribe resumes her seat, timid and apologetic. I am uncertain which of the two is the greatest threat. Izga, forward and obvious or the Scribe who throws up a façade and who I am certain plots for revenge as I suspect her scribblings detail.
Shaza, I notice, leans away from her sister. Not one to be brave. Another, one of my Honour Guards, stands at their table, her eyes studying Izga.
He slaps both of his hands on the table. “You are right, young one. My household should act properly in such grand company as your father.” Izga halts immediately. “Izga, given you are on your feet, please fetch another round of drinks for our guests. Solgia, please assist.”
Zinia interrupts by standing, her chair shifting back slightly while doing so. “I am not that young, Lord Klar. I approach sixteen years, and just recently, in fact, Lord Torngul entrusted me to act as his herald on matters of great importance, of which I will reveal no more. Your Lord, who is also mine, upholds law and order in this valley, and those who answer to him must always remember their place.”
She isn’t privy to our circumstance. Somehow, I hope he makes an allowance. I know he already is aware, and my need to do something is the desperate action of a father to prevent the needless death of one he cares for. While Shaza coos and carries on with her betrothed, Zinia has stepped up.
“Husband, my young half-sister is heady with her first taste of responsibility. As much as she defends Lord Torngul, she has no intention of insulting you on your land. Please forgive and instead join your three sons and me.” Lord Klar and I race for a first embrace of Thalgora. I hesitate at the last moment. A husband should be the first, I realise. A father needs to wait. As I shake my head with a smile from ear to ear, I notice a specific Honour Guard briefly pat my youngest daughter’s shoulders with an abundance of affection. Their eyes meet, and then both faces resume their respective façade. I lose my smile.
Two warm hands wrap around one of mine. “I will get to the bottom of what we both saw, husband. As the step-wife, I can test my relationship with your youngest daughter so you can stay above the fray.”
I lightly squeeze one of her hands and then release as Thalgora hands Trela and me a babe each to burp. After being held off for so long, the third worries at Thalgora’s breast until latching on and filling his cheeks. With my prize lying along the length of one arm, I use the other to embrace Thalgora. Our eyes meet, and instantly we know. Zeb Stone Grim’s arm embraces his daughter, Koria Keen Eye. A miracle of sorts, I think to myself and after this life, our last time, as it should be.
Lord Klar releases Thalgora, and Shazza shuffles forward. Thalgora marches towards her while tidying her breasts back into her leather jerkin and bear hugs her sister, swiftly lifting her from the floor. Shazza lets out a squeak and throws her arms around her big stepsister. They share chatter, mostly Shaza telling her sister how amazing her betrothed is to her.
Zinia stands by next, waiting. Stealing a glance at me and then Thalgora. As Thalgora releases Shazza, she steps towards her youngest stepsister and holds out a hand. Zinia lifts her own, her eyes darting about, looking anywhere but at her big sister.
“I overheard your part in supporting our father. An emissary, no less?” Zinia’s hand falters, almost losing her grip on Thalgora’s, except Thalgora reaches forward to prevent the mishap.
“You overheard?” Her voice rises.
“I had to juggle my babes…”
“Oh.” She shuffles her feet. “I can’t solve father’s dissenters with a sword like you, although I can now see the appeal.” Zinia cracks a smile. “I must engage in a war of words and defeat them without bloodshed.”
“Yours is kinder and less upsetting to relatives. You serve your Lord, our father, well. I am certain we can find sword arms and win their loyalty.” I notice Thalgora’s eyes dart towards one of my Honour Guards.
Zinia’s face flushes dark green. “There is nothing untoward there, sister, I assure you. I find her easy to talk to, as she does me.”
“She is too protective of you for simple mutual conversation, sister.” Zinia steps back. “There is nothing wrong with such an attraction as long as you honestly reciprocate or genuinely deny as soon as you know.”
“You aren’t ashamed of me? Of my abnormal desires?” Her face looks up. “I will not beget children…”
“Our father married and slept with three wives, begetting three half-sisters. He probably claims abnormal.” Zinia cracks a weak smile. Thalgora grabs her shoulders. “Love is hard to find. When you do, grab it, and hold on. The son of a power-hungry sycophant of our father has besotted Shaza, and yet I would say the same words to her.”
“Do you believe their love is true and mutual?”
Thalgora ruffles her half-sister’s hair. “That is not our concern. We will be there for her, regardless, even if all her dreams come crashing down. Yes?”
“Yes.”
With a babe now over my shoulder, I smile as Lord Klar and Trela entertain the table with my grandsons while the half-sisters share words. I am certain that Lord Klar overheard as I did. Would Luda fit as easily into this new family arrangement is the question?
---DUZSIA, THE RELENTLESS, CONCUBINE OF LORD KLAR POV
Out of the shadow of the false dawn, Luda slinks. The black blood of others drips from her, which she seems most comfortable with. I hear Vorlora’s sharp intake of breath.
“Where have you been all night? We agreed on an initial scouting mission…”
She licks the blood off one dagger and slides it home into its sheath. The other she wipes or tries to, on the soft leather of her pants at the thigh. She giggles and gives up, returning the unclean weapon to its sheath.
“I found some old friends on my way back. They occupied Milga’s camp in the mountain foothills, and I asked them to apologise. They refused, so I needed to spill their blood.”
“Did you jeopardise the mission?” I thought re-uniting with Milga had brought some balance to Luda…
“No.” She sways as she advances towards us. She is almost drunk-like, except her movements are deliberate, and she is in total control. “My friends squealed for mercy once I revealed how upset I was at their betrayal. Goblins, betraying hobgoblins to slavers.” She shakes her head, her bottom lip prominent. “Their cowardice forced me into actions and deeds thought name worthy, Bloodstalker. For a short while before, though, my name was Stealth. I couldn’t simply forget what they took from me.”
“Are they all dead? How many?” whispers Vorlora with a shudder.
“All dead, yes. I didn’t bother to count them. Do you think I do this for sport? I am justice.”
An arm’s length away, and her bloody appearance is, if anything, worse. “What of the mercenaries? Did you learn of any ways in? Can we assassin at least one and safely escape?”
“Humm. Well, that is the thing. They are soldiers. They guard the perimeter of their camps, but once you evade the sentries, you can walk about by borrowing their armour and exuding confident caution. I stole a spear from one camp, slew the Troop Leader of the nearby camp with it and with a spear from his camp, slew the Troop Leader of a third camp. Like their armour, they mark their weapons.”
“You walked in, stole weapons, slew two Troop Leaders, and left? None followed?”
“Oh, they will follow eventually, and I left behind a subtle trail, challenging but not obvious. They could even now be doing so for all I know.”
I step forward and grab her chin. She doesn’t even attempt to evade or shake free. “Where will they go?”
She opens her mouth in such a way that blood drips onto her teeth, blackening them when she curls her lips into a smile. She licks them clean and says, “They will discover a massacre of goblin bodies at Milga Stone Blood’s camp and assume their assassin died there, one of many, unexpected, of course, and tragic.” The palms of her hands cross over her chest and then relax.
“What of your bloody trail to our camp?”
She cackles. “Why do you think my boots are so clean? A stream flowed past Milga’s camp. I walked its entire length before striking across land and circling back. Goblins and wolves would be hard-pressed to track me.”
“But not impossible,” I retort.
“Nothing is impossible, and I hope to take advantage of that. I intend to either clean or exchange my clothes and armour. Once done, I want to lurk by the stream and hunt any who decide to follow, who will be certain to be their best. I will toy with them and distract them. You, Duzsia the Relentless, will return to their camp and judge if our mission has succeeded. The camp of two tribes lost a Troop Leader, the murder weapon belonging to a third troop. The camp of three tribes lost a Troop Leader to a weapon belonging to a fourth troop. Only the mercenaries of the First Troop, the Spear Fangs, are above suspicion and, I assume, will try to keep an impossible peace.”
---KLARIA, SECOND WIFE OF LORD KLAR POV
Slipping into the Tavern unnoticed wasn’t a trick or a skill—simply a consequence of following Thalgora, the first wife of Lord Klar, and her three babes. I effortlessly hid behind the wave of excitement, admiration, and impossibility of her survival. Lord Klar and Lord Torngul fawn over her and the three. I should be the first wife now, the babes in my arms and the joy of their birth tempered by the expected sorrow of Thalgora’s death during childbirth. The first wife still lives. Therefore, I will continue as the second wife. Our pact in the fields is dust as I grip the handle of the dagger sheathed at my waist. My healed callouses are proof of my dedication to practice and determination to improve my skill in the weapon. She planned to ensure I wouldn’t be a burden to Lord Klar and be able to defend myself. She succeeded.
Her death would also mean I would be immune from Izga’s threat. Spirit-captured wives couldn’t kill other spirit-captured wives, but Thalgora could because she hadn’t been spirit captured by Lord Klug. As I sit and sulk at a table in the corner of the tavern beyond the table of Lord Torngul’s Honour Guard, I study the miracle that is Thalgora—her hand movements, stride, facial tics and even her expressions, especially laughter.
I ‘touch’ Izga and delight in her reaction. She should have dropped the plate of drinks. She didn’t because of her lightning reflexes from consuming Lord Klug’s seed. Her scowl washes over me. My moment of bravado will probably cost me. She can deliver worse punishments than death. I attempt to ‘touch’ the Scribe, pure curiosity, trying to confirm a rumour. As I extend my will and probe her soul, I detect the thin tell-tale spirit connection to Lord Klug. Rumour no more.
Can I do the same to Thalgora? I shiver when I recall Izga and her treatment of me. Physical intimidation by her is a given, flaunting her knowledge of what it means to be spirit bound to Lord Klug unnaturally oppressive. All of which I thought were unique to her. When practising sword and shield with Zergoa, I tried for concessions, commanding her as Lord Klar’s second wife to restrain her blows or slow her dodge so I could learn her techniques. I voiced my needs and received her belittling laughter and brutality. She was already pulling her blows, much to my dismay. Then I kept my commands to myself, and, recalling Izga’s intimidation, I tried to project my will onto Zergoa, driven by my emotion. At first, nothing and then I scored some hits and received glancing blows instead of full-on strikes. At the time, I thought my skill must have improved, as did Zergoa. Against Voria, though, no such relief. My bruises were proof, and her barking critique was confirmation.
I extend my will, probing beyond the physical limits of my flesh towards Thalgora. I expect the dullness of the impregnable soul, like Voria. Instead, her soul is open to me, and the binding thread to Lord Klug radiates. She is spirit bound! Such is the revelation my heart almost leaps out of my chest. But how? Is her awareness fresh like new? Or is she like Zergoa, spirit bound, yet her awareness near non-existent?
“Your deliberations are amusing, sister-wife.”
My soul shakes, and it is all I can do to control the physical shivering, overcoming my entire body. I shut down my will, withdraw my invasion. The strength of the contact is far greater than even Izga’s intimidation.
“Don’t leave now, not when you are about to learn more than you could ever believe possible. We are wives of Lord Klug. We cannot slay each other. What torment we share will make us stronger.”
My will is nothing. I am again facing Zergoa, sword in hand, using the wrong grip, of course, on my first day of training. Helpless and at the mercy of an expert…
“Please,” I plead. “I apologise, Thalgora. I didn’t know you were spirit bound, and I was jealous of your survival. And I will never doubt your place as the first wife again. Please forgive me. I have received brutal weapons training and don’t wish for further punishment. Please, I beg you to show mercy.”
I wait for a reply. I don’t test my will because if I am to be released, only Thalgora can grant that result.
“You disgust me, wife of Lord Klug. Especially one who has had his true blood flowing in their veins from birth. Thalgora died in childbirth.”
My body releases all self-control. Without knowing for sure, I believe I am slumping in my chair, possibly sliding off to the floor. Such is the disconnect. She toys with my will… Fear grips my will. Reply is impossible.
“Koria Keen Eye now inhabits the flesh bag once known as Thalgora, first wife of Lord Klar, and you, second wife, have developed an understanding of Lord Klug’s true gift faster than his other wives, even Izga the Assassin, the greedy devourer of Lord Klug’s seed, his favourite it seems to me.”
“Favourite?” My reply is feeble, one-word.
“Of all my words, my acknowledgement of your prowess, all you recall is that single word?”
She ignores me. Her grip on my will is effortless. I don’t know how I know this, but it is true. She returns…
“Belief. Confidence. These are the words you need to reach for. Arise, second wife of Lord Klug, for you are superior to Lord Klug’s other wives, except me and with my teaching, you will shortly be my equal. You must grow Klaria, false daughter of Klugak. Your first lesson will be returning. When others slay your flesh, you will feel a great need to return to the light. You must resist, and I will show you how. Your second lesson will teach you to share your will more completely with Lord Klug to strengthen him, even if your flesh withers because of the effort.”
I am nothing. I feel inadequate. At the lowest of the low, I have one last action. I can expel my spirit, separate from my flesh, and free my will. Koria Keen Eye can no longer make me her plaything. No longer seduce me with false promises of greatness. I feel the beginnings of release…
“Don’t be the coward when you are about to aspire to greatness!”
Yes, release. Her last words wash over me, for I care not. Her will slips, weakening. Freedom is within my control.
P.S. If you are not reading this chapter for free on Royal Road or Scribble Hub, then the website you are on has stolen my story.