---VORIA, SWORDBEARER OF LORD KLAR POV
I observe from a tree’s thick, comfortable branch. I am also confident the clearing under my gaze was the one where Zergoa dusted her body, and Izga fell into a pit to her death. Solgia drew a detailed map of the location and a rough map of the way here. The effort his scribe devoted to the task was a clear sign that Lord Klar didn’t want any misunderstanding.
How Solgia gleaned such exact details, I put down to their wife bonding. Zergoa and Izga would be the sole witnesses to this detail, and they are dead. But then, he convinced me to drink the dust from one of his concubines, a Grolgia, on the promise of improved martial skills. During the black ooze cleansing, I insisted he sweeten the deal. He would also tumble with me between the sheets. Whatever the dust was, I figured his seed would be an absolute improvement. Something I needed if I was once again to challenge Vorlora in our practice sessions. The whelp had become the expert on her return. The sole explanation would be his seed. Yet when? Her improvement was noticeable before he returned.
Once again, my eyes follow the edge of the pit to the stake which once restrained Zergoa’s body. There is no pile of dust. In the pit, broken stakes and trails of dried black blood on them remain, but no suspended corpse. On the non-pit side of the stake, half-burnt, half-consumed hobgoblin bodies rot, their stink wafting across me occasionally depending on the direction and strength of the wind. Further away, gnawed arms and legs litter the clearing, some down to the bone. All bulky and masculine, none are slim or lithe, like his Izga.
Nothing has changed all morning…
As I climb down the tree, I can’t shake the feeling that someone deliberately dug the pit to be visible from this absolute best position on the branch. If that’s the case, it’s easy to deduce the pit was one aspect of a planned ambush. Zergoa was the bait. Izga was the actual prize. Given this deliberate effort, I imagine Lord Klar’s foes desperately wanted the assassin dead.
Tearing a strip of cloth from my bedroll, I wet it using water from my waterskin. I tie this around my head and across my nose. I recover my spear from under some leaves at the base of the tree and approach the pile of dead. Dropping to my haunches, I half hide behind the half-burnt and rotting mound of flesh. I scan the clearing. Pure chill stillness.
If someone had once carefully stacked the corpses around the stake, they were no longer in that state. Now face to face with the mound, I could imagine predators pulling at arms and legs to spread the bodies and dismember others. Over them all hangs the familiar perfume of death and decay, although my mask saves me from the worst.
He insisted I inspect every corpse, every scattered limb until I found Izga’s corpse or could swear on my life she wasn’t still there. The spearhead punctures the first corpse I stab, gently rocking it. Pulling the spear out destroys the chest cavity. After a quick visit to the surrounding forest, I try again. The spearhead now impales a branch to serve as a crosspiece. I push at the bodies to spread the pile. Not long after, Izga’s half-burnt, naked body stares back at me. Her lifeless eyes, haunting, an overall gruesome visage. The former beauty of death-dealing, impotent. The lack of skin tone and colour is the most startling.
I grab her by the feet to drag her body from the pile. Her corpse held itself together long enough until I had her on the piece of leather Solgia had presented to me for this purpose. As instructed by the Head Scribe, I remove one of the two vambraces she insisted I equip from my forearm and place the piece of armour upon Izga’s rotting flesh between her modest breasts.
Solgia instructed me to wait. Mysteriously, she said I would discover when I could leave.
I set some small traps along a nearby game trail in case my wait became days. The rain had washed any tracks round, so I couldn’t reckon what animal I would feast on. The main path crosses the trail, so I check before entering the open. One direction leads further along a mountain trail, the other back to the clearing. A quick dash and I would be across and setting another trap line.
A small half a boot impression in the now firm, drying mud pointing away from the stake stops me. I find another. Then, several more. Tracks. Each partial boot imprint is sharp. Either goblin or hobgoblin child, I conclude. Somehow, I suspect this trail is significant. The next boot imprint is further along, but thankfully, it is still on the main path.
A pain stabbing the bone of my forearm drops me to my knees. Tears spring from my eyes. Then, the pain retreats. I scan the length of the path. Nothing. Next, I survey the brush on either side. Again, nothing, but a gentle breeze rustles the leaves. I rise to my feet and cautiously take another step.
Several more steps and I am again grabbing at my arm. This is an attack from within. Lord Klar’s nanorobots. I push myself from the ground and stumble before regaining my feet. I peer ahead along the path and shift the vambrace covering my forearm to massage some relief. If pain lies ahead, maybe returning to the clearing will be without pain.
---
As I skirt around the scattered corpses in the clearing and approach the tree, I panic. Izga’s corpse is no longer there! Standing above the leather sheet, I don’t trust my eyes. The remaining parts of Izga’s body vanish as I watch, leaving only dust. Separate piles for her limbs, torso and head.
At my belt, I finger the fine, small, soft leather bag Solgia also insisted I take.
The bag does much to connect the pieces of this puzzle. I received Grolgia’s dust in a bag. The scribe handed me the single-body-length leather sheet and an empty leather bag. At my feet, Izga’s dust waits.
Is this reclaiming? Or harvesting? I hope for simple honouring, but deep down, I suspect this is Lord Klar recovering what is his.
Whatever happened while away, Lord Klar is more focused since his return. More ruthless.
With reverence, I sweep the dust into Solgia’s bag using the small brush I find inside the bag. Izga’s dust fills the bag, whereas Grolgia’s dust is half as much. I test the weight by tossing the bag in my hand and decide that Izga’s dust weight measures her former prowess. This suggests that when my time arrives, mine will be pitiful, yet I hope I will outshine Grolgia’s.
Does the wife enjoy twice the advantage of a concubine? What would the dust pile size be for an ally who sometimes asks for favours? This definition of wife, concubine and ally differs from what everyone else sees, of course. To everyone, Thalgora was Lord Klar’s wife before and after childbirth, yet after childbirth, she was more. She could command his seed. Like Luda and Duzsia, they were concubines to everyone else, but they commanded his seed. True wives.
I retrieve the piece of armour from the leather sheet and bind it to my right forearm. Solgia was adamant that both pieces were necessary, and, on my life, I would always wear one. But needed to return both.
As I climb to my feet, I endure a stinging sensation under Solgia’s armour. I curse under my breath. Again, I have done wrong again somehow! I drop to my bottom and reach for the bindings. These are coming off. She didn’t say I had to equip them once I collected the dust. Then I overhear them.
“The Grandmaster said to follow his tracks to find a path that leads to a pit.”
“But there is another set.”
A weasel-like voice adds, “Fresh, they turned back.”
“The stench,” gripes another.
“My fellows,” the first voice asks, “What does this suggest?”
“Someone has already searched through the pile of corpses for something,” answers the second.
I ease myself deeper into the surrounding forest, ensuring the tree trunk blocks their view in this direction as much as possible. Before they disperse about the clearing, I need to balance haste with stealth while staying undercover.
While the voice alone isn’t conclusive, they seem to be goblins. Goblins aren’t always deadly when alone, although Luda comes to mind. They can be dangerous when a pack works together. Their caution should assist me in escaping, but that same caution shows that if they find me, I will be in a fight for my life.
“Over here,” hisses one of them. I bless Lord Klar and his advice to improve my hearing.
“The coincidence is too great,” says voice one. “We catch our thief and will find what the Grandmaster commanded us to find.”
The weasel-like voice speaks again. “Remember what he said to us? He had a hunch! We travel together. Perhaps they do!”
“Quiet. Remember, the tracks were fresh. Our thief may be closer than we presume.”
The third voice speaks up again. “A hobgoblin, though. We need to flush them out. One of us should return and send word to the other searchers. We should be able to find her tracks by then and use them to seal the trap.”
“Do you really suspect it is a female?” The excitement in Weasel’s voice doesn’t bode well for me.
“Think with your head, not your pecker,” scoffs the third voice. “We aren’t sharing the reward, so let’s go get it.”
Their voices are easier to overhear, which suggests they are closing in while exploring the clearing. Before long, they will discover the drag marks from Izga’s body. I continue scurrying away, relying on my hearing to avoid them.
---
The clunk and tumble of rocks nearby suggest they are closing in on my position. For now, my use of the stones for my trespass has diverted them from my trail. But even blind searching will eventually circle back to improbable places. They will search the top of the big rock, which I lay on out of frustration, if for no other reason.
At dusk, two climb over rocks and leap for handholds. My height made this part more effortless for me. But I gain a sense of their determination as their bellies scrape as they clamber up. A sharp pain stings my left forearm. The meaning becomes apparent as a goblin’s face appears from that direction. He glances over his shoulder, and I hear the hiss of him drawing a deep breath.
My spear is finally in position, and I stab. A fading gurgle signals his retreat. His words of triumph or discovery dying with him.
A sharp pain stings the top of my right forearm. I don’t hesitate and swing my spear across, ready to stab. Another goblin’s face appears, and my spear point penetrates his eye. Jiggling him off the tip of my spear, his body falls back from my rock.
“I told you. Didn’t I tell you? We should have told the others!”
“Shut up and climb the rock!”
“A single hobgoblin, you certain we can take her. Tell that to them two.”
I hear a slap. “We can be heroes. Climb! She can’t cover both directions at once. Maybe you will find some luck.”
A sting to my left forearm, and he receives a spear point in his mouth and out the back of his head.
“Bitch!” A rock sails over the boulder. Then, one flies high, and I must shift to one side to avoid being struck. The bang on the boulder is loud as it careens away. “Stay where you are until I return. Otherwise, if we need to hunt you down to find you, you will discover the meaning of pain.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
I blink. He must expect that threat to work. Why? I slide down the side of the rock, and as I am about to land, a painful sting stabs at my forearm. Sword? Spear? I spin to shield the wound. An arrow strikes the rock where my body had otherwise been. I crouch, and another arrow strikes the rock above me.
“No hobgoblin bitch can be that lucky. What are you? Stay still so I can slaughter you!”
My forearm doesn’t bleed, but I comprehend the need for that level of pain. My reaction had to be instantaneous. Do I have someone or something watching over me? Vorlora once attempted to talk to me about something similar. I didn’t listen; instead, I trusted her directions when Jarlgren’s hunters attacked us, and we ambushed them. Her instinct then seemed miraculous.
---
Small pins of pain guided me, and after taking a wide, stealthy arc, I was well away from my one attacker and most likely every other goblin search party combing this part of the mountains. The forest is ancient. Large tree trunks, no animal spoor and game trails, no cold campfires, or rough shelters. The snowline beckoned within reach if I wanted to scratch that off the list. I had a more significant worry.
I stood in the clearing, waiting until dusk. Why? The faith of a fool. Whoever or whatever guided me here was no longer doing so. I had wasted daylight before I reached the now obvious conclusion I was once again on my own.
First things first, shelter. Fishing out the leather sheet from my backpack, I tied three corners to different trees, leaving the fourth loose as a door or wall. The floor consisted of damp leaves and brush. Leaning against the point tree, I chew on tack, dreaming of what my trap line may have caught and the taste of the cooked game. Instead, I haunch over, trying to keep every pocket of warmth while nibbling at trail food and not allowing doubt to creep into my mind.
A distant rumble draws me out of my makeshift shelter. Trembling ground makes me study the snowline. The wall of white racing down from above makes my blood run cold. I know you can’t outrun an avalanche. I need a cave, or a sheer drop, to press my body against. Searching my memory, I remember one possibility and sprint off backtracking. I call on Lord Klar’s seed to sustain me, to enhance what little natural light remains of the day as it struggles to penetrate the sparse tree canopy.
The noise from the rumbling grows deafening, branches of leaves grab me, bare branches stab at me, and yet my life depends on me winning this race. No! I have descended too far! I race back towards the plummeting snow. I can see the wall of white before me and crash my way through the brush, separating me from certain death and the possibility of survival. Leading snow splatters against my legs, heavier lumps strike my chest, and I dive towards the sheer face of stone. In my heart, I hope this boulder is the largest in existence. The part I squeeze my body against is a small part of a larger, firm, immobile whole.
The snow deafens me. Placing my hands over my ears doesn’t seem to ease the assault, but I hope it does. For the first time, I curse my improved hearing. I swear I scream my lungs out and yet hear none of it. Snow piles up in front of me, and the backfill encroaches on my sanctuary with every passing moment. Snow surrounds me as the rumble dies down, yet my chest has room to expand and contract. I dig and push the snow behind me, filling up my space to start a tunnel.
Snowmelt is my enemy. Leather, furs, armour, and boots would usually keep me warm for an expedition like this. Yet, water always finds the path of least resistance. As I dig, I shiver. My body cools, and then I suffer the cold assaulting my core. My arms ache. I wonder how much more snow is between me and freedom.
Is this my end? A tomb of snow? I need warmth and energy. Lord Klar’s nanorobots are my sole hope. I inwardly scream at them and then shut my eyes in surrender.
---ZINIA, DAUGHTER OF LORD TORNGUL HEARTSPLITTER POV
Tiger’s rough tongue on my skin and an outpouring of his amusement flooding my mind wake me from my slumber. I spin my body. My flailing arms splash up the water. I blacked out. For how long? Chill water and a cooling breeze caress my skin and my proud, stiff nipples. I realise with horror this feeling is everywhere because I am naked.
“Your clothes are on the shore. I asked your goblins to remove them.”
“Who? All of them?”
He deliberately pauses before answering. He teases, just like my sister. “The one you call Zoge did.”
As if waiting, Zoge appears and assists with my shirt first and then loin cloth. The other goblins, though, don’t pay me any attention. I dress and thank her.
“What now, Tiger?”
“We do the same for your goblins. The dust in the urns smells of her and will be good for them.”
I spare a glance at them and wonder if they will doubt like me. I fear the consequences. While contemplating, the goblins shout out in alarm. Without considering the possibility of danger, I sprint to the back of the clearing. The soft padding of Tiger’s paws on the ground tells me he is gaining on me. As he passes, I grab his fur and swing onto his back. What did I just do? Tiger’s happy, approving laugh floods my mind.
My goblins surround a pair of black leather-clad goblins when we arrive. I notice, as do we all, I suspect, the full, heavy sacks over their shoulders.
“I only need one of you to talk.” On cue, Tiger opens his maw.
They share a glance, and somehow, they decide which will talk.
“We are couriers, no more.”
Their armour is of excellent quality. I am confident their daggers will be as well, considering the crafting of the pommels.
“Leave the sacks and step back.”
“We can’t. It would mean our lives.” I suspect his eyes dart about, searching for someone else to speak up.
“Now or later, your choice.” Tiger licks about his maw and unleashes a low growl at them.
They lower the sacks to the ground and step back. Two of mine steps forward to remove them.
“Now, who are you two, really?”
“Couriers working for Clan Quickeyed, we swear.”
“How is Clan Head Durlarg these days?” I ask.
Again, they share a glance. “How would we know? He doesn’t talk to the likes of us.”
“As he shouldn’t. Because you are liars. Now, for the last time, who do you work for?”
My goblins prepare. Tiger stretches out.
A skilled shift and our quests are back-to-back with their finely crafted daggers ready.
“One or more of you will die with us,” they growl.
My goblins feint towards them to gain their attention. Evaluating the skills of the opposition. They snipe back with dagger thrusts. Tiger leaps and lands on both couriers, smashing them into the ground.
Both couriers remain prone and silent.
The tallest of my goblins, Hogaz, explained that the two couriers strolled into the clearing, their startled faces proof they didn’t expect others to be there. By the time they realised their mistake, Zedor and Zageg, searching for kindling, returned and blocked their escape. Weighed down with sacks, they could leave them and bolt or try to bluff their way to freedom.
I order the couriers to be stripped of weapons and armour and their bodies buried.
The offer of dust needed to be next. Tiger must have sensed my concern, given his quick solution. I explained the risk and the reward. Each chooses to try. Between the haul of urns we had taken and the number in the sacks, my goblins had plenty to choose from. Tiger sniffed out equal measures of quality. This usually needed two urns, although other choices had three urns and one required four.
One at a time, they each lounged naked in the stream and swallowed the dust.
The dust consumed Zageg and Zedor; the others never mentioned them again. There was no reminiscing or campfire tales. I realised the assassin trade was about death, and they lived to the full while alive and didn’t mourn any loss.
This meant that Tenagor, Hogaz, Zoge and Torax survived. They each shed an equal amount of ooze; their amounts were small compared to Tiger and mine. As quickly as they recovered, they tested themselves against each other, taking turns teaching me the basics of dagger fighting. They wanted me to at least be able to defend myself until they could save me.
The physical workout accomplished several things. My goblins felt they contributed back to me, half a game, half serious. I practised talking to Tiger while under pressure and at a distance. Each day, we would be further apart. Finally, I needed the distraction. The sacks contained sealed containers of dust. This showed that others were aware of and actively harvested and used this source of power. Since they didn’t partake of the dust themselves, they either feared the one who sent them or didn’t grasp the value of what they carried.
---LORD KLAR POV
“Husband, the abomination will shortly be on us.”
“Calm, Klaria, explain,” I send to her.
“Voria retrieved Izga’s corpse and, as you predicted, I could, after a time, issue a single command to her nanorobots. Voria swept Izga’s dust into the leather bag, but a search party of goblins appeared before she could leave. Lord, their mission was to search for Izga’s corpse as well. Overhearing their conversation, it would seem one of their kind must have taken and survived the consumption of Zergoa’s dust.”
“The abomination, Klaria.”
“Yes, Lord. I guided Voria into the high mountains to escape the goblin search parties until just below the snow line. A snow churn is the best way I can describe it. It travelled across the top of the mountain, driving closer and closer. It had to be her. I feared my presence would reveal Voria’s location, so I left her, Lord. Alone.”
“The distance…”
“A gamble. The worst that could happen was I’d be called to the light. The best, well, you know the best, I am reporting. But I am certain my presence with Voria would have doomed her, and the abomination would have consumed Izga’s dust.”
I state the obvious. “Indeed, this would surely make her more powerful. You have my thanks, wife. I will be certain to reward you in your next lived life.”
“Thank you, Lord. I must regenerate and will return when I am restored.”
“Well, Lord,” asks Solgia.
“Well, what?” I reply as I grab her by the waist and swing her around, much to the worry of her two scribe underlings.
She whispers, “Which wife were you chatting to?”
“Who can we trust to send into the mountains to rescue Voria?”
“Non-wives?” she asks, and I nod.
“Non-concubines?” I nod again.
Her face sours before brightening. “Gorgrin and perhaps the rare huntress or two you haven’t quickened with child.”
“The village can spare him?”
She snickers. “His hunting parties aren’t as nibble with bellies full of arms and legs, so he spends much time with a female who adores him. Since she is with child, I am certain he would be underfoot by now and eager to escape.”
“They are goblin assassins. Who else can we send with them?”
“Vorlora. Duzsia can travel with her. Her presence shouldn’t be an issue, as the abomination has passed. If we are mistaken, she must return to the village.”
“What if they’re too deep, too west?” I ask.
“She will return to the light and await her next summons.”
“Lord?” asks a timid voice.
I wheel about to face both scribes to find one trying to silence the other by force, covering their mouth. Under my gaze, the game stops.
“She doesn’t know what she asks for,” says Tigliga, the shorter but older sister.
“I am of age now, sister, and can speak for myself.” She pokes her tongue at her sister and then faces me. “Lord, I volunteer to travel with Gorgrin. Since consuming dust, I shouldn’t be a burden, and I can make a record of what happens. A map, like Solgia scribed.”
I am sure I show her my best father’s kind face as I approach her. She guesses my answer before I speak and bolts down the rope ladder.
“Since she consumed dust, Lord, she dreams of being more. Instead of accepting her modest fortune and safe position as a scribe in your service.”
“Thank you, Tigliga. I suspected it was something I said.” I chuckle at my joke. The humour dies in their blank looks. As I cough to break the silence, they both roar in laughter at me. “I sense mischief!” I grouse.
“We have been waiting for the opportunity, Lord,” says Solgia. “It’s a pity Shiliga missed out.”
“Next time,” I say.
---ZOROTTOR BLACK TOOTH, CHIEF OF OATH KEEPER GOBLINS POV
My skin itches, and I have the scratches to prove it. The twitches seem constant. Worse, I must activate my nanorobots, as they all go dormant after an ever-shortening period of activity. Because of the Oath Keeper training, I surmise. The crones taught all to purify our blood and then command our nanorobots to sleep. Years of such practice and the state became involuntary, like breathing. There is no other explanation. Instead of nanorobots restoring my body during sleep, they go dormant, much to my frustration.
Does this explain the losses? There is no overnight rebuilding, so perhaps.
It was another dawn, yet under the heavy canopy of the forest, this state was subtle, more like less dark. My eyes are a blessing as they permit me to continue my search for a way out. The forest and the game trails always offered hope of escape, yet the Criss Cross nature confuses.
The braying of a beast and its evident pain shatters the forest’s muted chitter. I must be near the forest’s outskirts, yet I can’t head straight towards the noise. The forest doesn’t provide direct routes.
Moving swiftly back and forth, getting closer and then farther away on the game trails, there was a moment when the braying stopped. I took a long breath to prevent tears. I guessed for a while. Then, their shouting guided me.
---
The smell of smoke from their campfire finally saved me from the forest. I took a chance on the smallest game trails. The thorns, stabbing from twigs, cursing—now all worth it. The night sky replaced the forest canopy.
I lick my dry lips and try to swallow saliva, which isn’t there. Thirst and then hunger. Not far behind them two are nanorobots. With those thoughts propelling me forward, I try to maintain all the guile and stealth goblins are renowned for as I sneak forward towards my saviour’s camp.
Hobgoblins. No goblins on watch. Good, I have a chance then.
---
A waterskin and cold leftovers are within reach, yet nanorobots dominate my priorities. This makes little sense to me; however, my body rebels. I can narrowly avoid sneaking in a straight line to a specific tent. An unknown scent attracts me and drives me onwards. I berate my foolhardy thoughts and have enough strength of will to insist on patience. A direct approach would guarantee discovery, and I frequently pause to counsel caution at myself to avoid losing everything.
Easing my body under the flap of a tent, the smell drives me ever onwards. An insatiable consumption to quench. A single prone body, under covers. Female hobgoblin.
My jaws are ripping at her throat. Civilisation has left me; raw animal need is on me. I drink deeply as her heart continues to pump her blood. I try to saviour my reward. But her blood cannot sate my need. How can that be? The scent is here. What have I missed?
I rip away the covers from her bedroll.
My eyes skim over her youthful nakedness and fix on a long, narrow wooden shape resting in the crook of her arm. My nostrils fill with the sweet scent as I lunge forward to claim what I need. Ripping the top off, I upend the container and pour the contents down my throat. Then I gag. So dry. A water skin is within reach, and I gulp down the water. I repeat this cycle until the container is empty.
I swiftly scan the contents of the tent. Then dizziness, followed by a darkness, overtakes me.
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