---Tinuna, Shifter of the GPA Observer Ship POV
She pads towards me, her head down, and I wave her away. I would stamp a foot, but since her carnivorous maw severed one leg above the knee and another below the knee, this display of displeasure is impossible.
“Find water and fetch me food,” I command her. The gushing of my blood into her mouth, along with the amount of blood in my legs when she chewed them off, soon, but not soon enough, took control of this tiger-like creature. I say tiger-like because although a youth, she is bigger than an earth tiger and has enormous fangs. Not making an allowance for the curve, they are still impressive. As long as my forearms.
Several days passed, and we settled into a routine. She hunts, I eat. She carries me to the water and scares away the threats. This protection lets me drink peacefully and hold my leg stumps in the water for quality healing time. Then we escape to our lair, a depression beside a fallen tree.
Every evening, my eyes follow the setting sun and I curse my overconfidence. I had almost crossed the plains, unharmed, when my pet pounced. Being taken and held by goblins still burnt my pride, so this second ignominy only made me more determined to rise. There is also the fact that it took a whelp like Vorlora to show me how to escape, even if an opportunity didn’t happen until weeks after she did. I surmise her antics also contributed to that!
From our humble lair, I spied a couple of sizeable mixed hobgoblin and goblin groups fleeing south over these restful days. The temptation to follow them overflows when a third group passes, and I make ready to leave our lair. My healing favoured the leg bitten or chewed off above the knee, which is now complete. Mounting my pet, my two bootless leg stumps wave about on each side of her enormous stomach. With a flick of my mind, she bounds forward in the direction I command.
We eventually catch up to stragglers and observe them for a day and a night. They plod on during the day and eat the minimum food at night. They may survive without help. I wait until they break camp and witness them crowd around a miracle—slain game. I tickle my tiger behind the ears and explain the reason with my mind. She is pleased; I am satisfied.
Three days passed, and we caught up with what I assume is the primary group. The one the stragglers once travelled with. I observe their camp trying to locate the main wagon or tent. I plan to announce myself to the leadership because spilling the blood of my future followers may not work out long term.
The night shift guards, pre-dawn, are my first followers. After my pet knocks them down by pouncing on them, I force them to drink my blood. With the rising sun at my back, my guards surround me, as would an honour guard. Calmly, we advance towards the main tent. The presence of my tiger sows enough fear and doubt that most choose to observe. Others crowd around and follow. My escorting guards presumably reassure my audience that I have permission to be amongst them. Whatever the reason, I now know why GPA007 likes this so much. Nanorobots give you an edge and assure you that nothing in this primitive world is impossible if you discard doubt. My face remains stoic while I momentarily relish the possibility of consuming his seed and blood. What change will that deliver to a former shifter?
My guards informed me about these refugees, and I quickly decided to be bold. When I announce I am High Priestess Rexa reborn, a crone shuffles forward to taste my blood. Taking a chance, I transformed my blood to match the dominant blood type of my four guards. Her quick confirmation of my lineage was a surprise to me. I didn’t think she would have consumed enough of my nanorobots to fall under my influence. The belief of others is guarded, convincing on the surface, at least. They are being pragmatic; unhappy with their current beggar state after being in charge for many generations. I offer hope. The former followers of the High Priestess, the Klugites, have a cultural expectation that all power rests with the High Priestess, which suits me. Over the following days, I found out my divine presence is a convenience that serves most others, except for the few who, between them, plotted for the same power, regardless of the cost.
I ordered them to stay camped here for another day. There is some reorganisation to do. Military style, non-fighters and children in the middle, armed guards front, back and on each side. I organised the guards into units with their leaders answering to me. The stragglers join us at dusk and my leaders assimilate them. Delegation works, at least for now.
They have no destination except to keep walking south. I know of the perfect valley, the perfect destination. The scout ship scanned many valleys revealing various caves, water courses and concentrations of beings.
With military precision and my tiger and I scouting well ahead, we discover the easiest way forward. We make good time and caught up with another group within two days. Some leaders in the group protest, of course, wanting to hold on to the little power they have. Instead of convincing them with an argument, I ordered my tiger to bite their heads off. They claimed a close connection with Rexa, so I sampled their blood. Proving that theirs is unique, I adjust my and the tiger's blood to match. I suspect the crone, who tested my blood the first time, was weary of the contested leadership and wanted to see strength join their cause. This was a valuable lesson for me. The crone should have denounced me. Instead, she believed that pretending would better serve her motives and that if, by accident the greater good, that wouldn’t be all bad.
That night, my tiger forced her way into the crone’s tent. She threw herself at my tiger’s feet, pleading for forgiveness, promising loyalty. I surprised her by asking her to re-sample my blood. Her enthusiastic nodding was all the confirmation I required. My blood now carried High Priestess Rexa’s lineage; therefore, no crone could denounce me unless they were prepared to lie—something which was always a possibility given the crone prostrating before me. The crone would remain alive, for now, for that very reason. I insisted she drink my blood. From now on, I deemed a loyal, corruptible crone on my side a necessity.
My group absorbed many stragglers and three reasonably sized groups before we found Lord Hob’s Valley. I set them to work felling trees and building homes at the mouth of the valley. Little did they know that their toiling would uncover a vast cave complex once they cleared the forest. That would be our home, but the town would also be necessary, where my people could reestablish various crafts. I would have them construct shade over the entire settlement—protection from dusting. I knew, of course, this to be impossible now, but they would need the comfort of this false protection.
During many rounds of meditation, I consumed water and food to aid my healing. I also kept track of Lord Hob’s demands—for example, two additional hobgoblin flesh bags with subtle but desirable modifications. For future credit, I ensured his vision for each would become reality. One of these made some interesting command modifications to the shuttles. Without knowing more, I could only assume he had commanded them to be made. The alternative would have required me to wipe them, leaving flight control with the pilot. Given the effort and time devoted to tweaking the flight plans and manoeuvres, this didn't make sense. Why spend so much time if not vital?
Analysis of the slime, an enlightening discovery. A biological goop with some nanorobot-like characteristics. My sampling robots quickly cleaned up the slime spilling from the ears of their symbiotic host on death. To give such volumes, the host, I reasoned, must be enormous. Therefore, instead of trying to control the host, the least I could try to do is to trigger free thought in any beings under its control. Releasing the captured goop with nanorobots so programmed, I am confident in the future; any enslaved person will try to win their freedom.
The last item, which grabbed my attention, was more personal. When queried, the Scout Ship’s navigation computer told me the pilot had plotted a course to Earth. As far as I was concerned, that wouldn’t do. The moment the pilot climbed into the hibernation pod, which should be before they left this solar system, the Scout Ship would plot a course toward the sun.
While I would like to test the limit of my control–could I be aware of the Scout Ship when it landed on Earth? I choose destruction. His communication was a complete, plausible explanation and the new slime enemy would distract the humans. Analysis of the bodies would have been conclusive, but humans can’t have everything. Doubt will allow them some growth.
---Drulag, the last ancestor of Duzsia, the Relentless POV
“I thank you for your welcome,” I say.
“You are her last, I believe.”
Three parchments lay on the stone table before us, each a portion of the ever-shrinking family tree of Duzsia the Relentless. My name and my pregnant wife’s were the last listed without a note under our names to record the manner of our deaths.
“Rexa, Klugrath and his spawn have harried us since first finding us. Crossing the plains, our only reprieve, but too late.” My attempt to keep the frustration out of my voice is a failure.
“Rexa has died,” she says, her voice slightly condescending. Stone Corner always seems to know everything. It is just a matter of time.
“Yes, I know.” I enjoy finally being able to slap a look of surprise on Milga Stone Blood’s face. “I am travelling with a troop of Oath Keepers. They wanted to wait in my humble valley, but after they made the mistake of telling me about Rexa’s death, I had to leave for Farmer Hob’s valley immediately.”
“Is Sud Guts Ripper with them? He’s a regular.”
“No. I sense they were once many but are now few. Their original number is a secret, and they follow Zorottor Black Tooth with a youngish goblin crone.”
“Sud spoke of five troops, about one hundred mercenaries in each. There was or is a sixth that even they have lost track of. So, if even some are present, a formidable force.”
I shake my head while shuffling the pages into my satchel. “One hundred possibly, then about two hundred, maybe more females. All pregnant. They talk about an unknown hobgoblin father named Lord Klar.” I glance up in time to catch her, catch herself from stepping back from the table. Does she know him? “They also held and lost two prisoners. Wanting to sell both here.”
She is drinking now, leaning casually against the nearest wall. Yes, she knows Lord Klar. What about the two prisoners?
“The first is called Tinuna.” Nothing. She doesn’t react at all. “She is said to be a beauty beyond compare. Males would fall at her feet, and all would want to breed with her.”
“A pity we didn’t get to see this temptress, although the selling and buying of slaves is not a trade we would welcome here.”
“The other is less important but more vindictive if what they say is true.”
“What did they say?” Her eyes betray her eagerness.
“She escaped and then deliberately led Klugite refugee groups to them. Mortal enemies that they are…”
“Yes,” says Milga, now placing her empty cup on the table. I wait for her to look at me.
“Vorlora was her name.”
Milga grabs at the cup, raising it to her lips. “I need a refill.” She immediately strides off.
She knows that name. I am certain. Therefore, interesting. Like many others, I entrust the histories of my lineage and lore to Milga Stone Blood at Stone Corner. Given she now knows both names, she would, in the coming days, gain at least some sentences about both. One day, her library will contain most of the history of this world or at least the best gossip. I chuckle at my joke.
When she returns, she places a single page on the table.
When I reach for the page, she tells me no. On the page is a note about Vorlora, apprentice to Drusia, Bounty Hunter, and sworn wife of Lord Klar. Last met while she patrolled the mouth of the valley leading to Hobgoblin Town.
“Why do you show me this?” I ask.
She stares into her cup, and after a time, she raises her eyes to meet mine. Dramatic pause. Or is she considering telling me or not and yet undecided?
“If you ever meet Vorlora. Talk to her. Better still, convince her to introduce you to Lord Klar.”
“What are you offering? A riddle? Hope?” I slam my hand on the stone table. “What?” I snarl.
“Allow your females to be impregnated by him. He will invigorate them and their babies.”
I stumble back. Invigorate? Is she hinting I should even allow him to bed my wife? I feel the colour drain from my face. The page disappears. Her footfalls grow distant. I am the last full-blooded male. My wife, not full-blooded but the crones assured me the dilution was only discernible by the absolute best of them. My life’s goal is to reestablish the lineage of Duzsia, the Relentless. How will this Lord Klar bedding my wife achieve that?
She doesn’t return. Her hobgoblin namesake does and ushers me out of their keep. I will return to my clan and the Oath Keepers, more confused than when I arrived here. I wonder if I can keep them from killing this Vorlora long enough for me to converse with her. Given half of what they say about her, probably not. I wonder, if this is the apprentice, what would Drusia, her master, be capable of?
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A cold, slim shiver runs up my spine. Duzsia and Drusia are similar names… I shake my head. How could that be ever possible? It is not like Milga Stone Blood and her look-alike deathless line. Duzsia the Relentless, her death recorded, confirmed by witnesses, and celebrated by her cowardly slayers.
---Goblin Crone, Oath Keeper Tribe POV
“Do you regret agreeing to join with them?”
I eye Zorottor Black Tooth, his face not as severe as it has been. The shallow valley is full of surprises, one being a tribe of primarily male hobgoblins. At first, it was a standoff, and then he and I took the first step, presenting ourselves. Their leader did the same. Drulag of no name, an ancestor of Duzsia the Relentless, is more than happy to welcome us. But then he insisted we all leave together and return to the valley of Farmer Hob.
“I wished I didn’t mention the death of High Priestess Rexa. His valley and the empty shelters would have been perfect. Instead, we rush off on his timetable and, to add insult, he conducts trade at Stone Corner while we wait for his return.”
“We need his protection. No Klugites have found us or if they have, our numbers are now too many. Even the bitch Vorlora no longer snipes at us.”
“We will lose some pregnancies all the same.” I wipe a tear from my eye. Vorlora. I curse her name. She was trouble, but we can only explain the ease with which Klugites found us if someone helped them. Zorottor didn’t believe me or didn’t want to. The result is the same.
He drops to his haunches before me. “This rest will do them good, as well as the safety of numbers, you’ll see.”
“I offered to check on his wife and new babe while we waited, but she made it plain she didn’t want my help when two huge guards confronted me.”
He grins. “Hurt pride?” I roll my eyes. “The talk is that this is the first pure lineage birth in the tribe for years, so they are being extremely cautious.”
The mother is borderline too old, so this could be her last. She is also the youngest of the handful of females in the tribe, so he doesn’t have others. Females outside his tribe wouldn’t carry Duzsia’s bloodline, so the future of Duzsia’s lineage rests on this hope. We wouldn’t want our bloodline contaminated, although we could teach them to purify their bloodline if we ever trust each other. I wonder if we should mention Lord Klar and his wife. A giggle escapes. Would Lord Klar lend out his pure-blooded wife, Duzsia, the Relentless?
“What is so funny?” he asks.
“The crone before me mentioned that a pure-blooded Duzsia, the Relentless, was wife to our benefactor, Lord Klar.”
Perhaps my sly smile gives me away.
“What are you plotting?”
“Given his current wife is such an ungrateful dog, perhaps he should learn of another possibility.”
He climbs to his feet, shaking his head. “Everything you have told me about Lord Klar suggests he wouldn’t give up one of his wives …”
I can’t help but cackle. “Yes. But what a clash of giants. Him fighting for his lineage, and Lord Klar fighting to keep his Lordship. A battle of the ages, if ever there was one.”
---Linmere, Shifter of the GPA Scout Ship POV
The wind whistles past my ears. The tug on my clothes will not be enough to prevent my eventual sudden stop. All my emotion is now cursing her, willing her death repeatedly to feel her spirit separate from her flesh. The pliant, subservient slut of Lord Klar. She fooled us all, even him.
The vague coastline is gaining definition before my eyes, the clear separation of shoreline and waves of water washing against it, growing.
Screaming reaches my ears. His two wives. This would be a first for them, something beyond their imagination. They should scream. I am too angry to scream. Given he has imprisoned me in this body, I somehow hung on to believing Linmere’s madness. I could be the saviour of our race. Now, just nothing.
Again, the screaming! Why can’t they accept the death that races towards us?
I need to look about, and what I find is surprising, even to me. They aren’t, as I assumed, screaming in panic. They are trying to gain my attention and then pointing. The goblin and hobgoblin are flapping their arms and legs, trying to guide themselves towards the plummeting side of the shuttle, currently in a twisting death spiral of its own.
Their attempts are comical, of course, as they have no idea of aerodynamics, gliding, body shape and everything else you can do while ideally waiting to yank the ripcord on the parachute to finish the thrill-seeking. I draw my arms to my sides and bullet like I shoot for the target. They are quick on the uptake and do the same. They tumble on their first try but recover.
As the tumbling and turning side of the shuttle screams ever closer, I must discover a way of slowing. Opening my jumpsuit is the only possibility, and I begin by unclipping and sliding down zips. As more and more of the jumpsuit opens, the air catches, and my plummeting dive brakes into a measurably slower plummeting dive. While that is not ideal, I am uncertain how to stabilise the twisting and turning portion of the shuttle I am approaching.
“Stupid bitch!” My head swivels about, and I almost tumble. Who does the hobgoblin think she is? “How many times did Lord Klar fill you with seed? Aren’t you different? A shifter? Do shifter stuff with his seed.”
Stupid, am I? Shifter stuff? What would a primitive hobgoblin know about shifter stuff? His seed certainly makes you feel good. I can feel them and communicate with them. They wait for me. What do they wait for?
“Do something before you smash into it!” she screams.
It would need to level, and it isn’t going to do that by itself. So there.
Not by itself …
They seem to wait …
His seed, this planet …
Gather, I command them. Absorb. An energy builds within me, or more precisely, inside the nanorobots. The product of his seed. This isn’t electrical energy, for example, but a new energy of some undefined kind. This hobgoblin flesh doesn’t recognise it. The hobgoblin flesh is simply a container for the nanorobots. The nanorobots contain this mysterious energy.
They are full. I know this instantly. Pressure grows as they continue to absorb. No more, I command.
They don’t ignore the command; they simply can’t comply. Instead, they gather in my brain. I know this because I can sense their pulsing as they move. They burn minute amounts of this energy to do so, but this in no way reduces the building heat. I am sure the blood in my brain sizzles. The billowing wind as I freefall to my death is the only relief. Perhaps I will avoid that death. Instead, my brain will explode!
I know I have burnt through all this body’s adrenaline because every muscle aches; the tiredness overwhelms me. As limp as my legs and arms are, the searing pain in my head causes them to weakly flap about. The large cutoff side of the shuttle looms up before me, spinning.
Stop! The word screams out from between my lips. Stop! Pure, unfettered willpower manifests the word into reality. Stop! Anger boils up from within me. Stop! Helpless emotion projects the word outwards from me. I open my eyes moments before my body crashes into the concave curve of the shuttle fuselage—the side with exposed horizontal and vertical beams. I guide my new body to fill a square. Shortly after, the hobgoblin wife of Lord Klar thumps down. She groans in pain from her square but springs back to life in time to catch the goblin wife. She was flying too high and would have overshot our makeshift platform. As I nurse several cuts on my arms, I envy the goblin. She hangs on to the hobgoblin wife while screaming her head off, excitement in her eyes. Or is it madness?
I grab at the leading edge. I am uncertain how long it will lead, but I need to know where and when we will come to a sudden stop. Treetops loom up. The fuselage crashes into them, but not through. On either side and I assume underneath, the land and the treetops fall away. At some point, we are all screaming and hanging on. Each bump and thud could be the end. The trees part and we skid across tall grasses. The land's slope and the grass's destruction slows us further. Then we are flying again—wind whistles in our ears.
Then briefly, cascading water drenches us from above and tips the fuselage. I can’t hang on any longer. I suspect broken wrists and they won’t be the only bones. As I fly away, I notice the goblin still riding the hobgoblin’s back. Most strange. I hit the churning water in what I realised a moment before a pool of water at the foot of a waterfall.
I am swallowing water; instead of drawing in air, more water fills my lungs. I don’t know which way is up. The water around me churns, and my arms and legs flail in all directions. Darkness creeps over my eyes.
My hand hits something solid and my fingers instinctively make a grab. I hang on. Pain engulfs my body. I realise this agony keeps me conscious, and I hang on to this lifeline dragging me through the water. The thing rips from my grasp. I panic and instinctively open my mouth to scream. A breeze caresses my face, but my lungs are full of water.
Words reach my ears. I shake my head.
“Stupid!” That single-word insult penetrates my being. “Tell them to consume the water in your lungs!” Each word is a single scream. “Stupid!”
Them? Of course. I command them in an instant. After what seems an age, I draw in a long breath. The pain returns.
I flutter my eyelids open yet see nothing.
“Your face must have hit the water or something. It is a mess of blood, bruises, and swelling.” I try to answer. Nothing. I concentrate on breathing. “Your body is mostly in the water, your nanorobots will consume the water and repair your body. When you gain better control, they can numb your pain as well.”
Such words of wisdom. I suspect the goblin, but I assume my hearing is off, probably burst eardrums. I command a bunch of nanorobots to heal my head and neck as their priority. To see, hear and speak would be helpful going forward.
I am unaware of the passing of time. Darkness, then light, would suggest nights and days. I don’t feel any thirst. No hunger pains either. Plenty of other pains, but not those.
“Open.” I feel something wet on my lips. My first thought is to shake my head and escape. “Stupid, open.” The goblin. The food has a scant texture, a mush. I savour the taste. There is more and I gobble down all she offers until my stomach tells me no more.
I am tired of being called stupid, so perhaps I should pay more attention to them. I begrudgingly must accept they have been around him longer and are familiar with these nanorobots. This doesn't make me happy, but I must survive this chaos.
Pain stabs through my leg, and I scream.
“Got it.” Words of triumph and then I pass out.
Warmth. This is a first. Then the aroma. I drool and open my eyes. Above me floats a canopy of stars. The smell of cooked flesh draws my head to that side, and shortly after, sizzling meat burns my lips, but I don’t care.
From my left a voice protests, “Too hot sister!”
“Eat and shut up. Nursing you both isn’t my idea of a good time.”
“You can only do so because you climbed onto my back.” There is irritation in the reply. “Also, remember who caught you.”
---
That overheard conversation was several weeks ago as we paddle in our makeshift boat. In between then and now, the two wives of Lord Klar taught me all they knew about nanorobots. They also informed me that only wives could return after death, just as Tinuna explained. Only when I could stand and walk did I try to comprehend how we survived. I believe the steep slope of the island mountain was the key. The treetops slowed us without plunging the fuselage into them and possibly smashing into a tree trunk, then sliding over the grass, which was more at the base of the steep mountain until dumped in the churning water at the bottom of a waterfall. The island, mostly mountain, was one of several in the chain that the Lizardfolk now lived on.
His two wives recovered faster than I. Their nanorobots were well under their respective command. The goblin wife, Luda, is the one who saved me. By riding on her sister’s back, the hobgoblin flesh cushioned, ensuring fewer broken bones, pulverised organs, and a brain that still worked through a mild concussion.
I delayed our recovery for several weeks after I fully recovered because I needed to explore this extra unique energy my nanorobots could capture. I hesitated to call it magic, but there wasn’t any scientific explanation for it, and something had to settle the tumbling fuselage. While not specifically willing for anything, everyone hopes with every being of their body and mind to survive certain death. So, who is to say my magic didn’t control or at least influence our landing?
On the horizon, two enormous mountain ranges reach up into the sky. The closest has enough seaward land to cultivate and live on. I am sure of this since I saw the truth from the Scout Ship. The centre is the start or origin of the great plains, while the furthermost mountain range plunged steeply into the ocean, which meant an inhospitable sliver of land would test anyone trying to live there.
A strange array of fruit lay between us on our makeshift shuttle-side boat. Some are edible, others contain milk water, all our staple food for weeks on this island.
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.