---VORLORA, WOLF RIDER AND CONCUBINE OF LORD KLAR POV
I pat Old Wolf as I study my two companions. Neither of them shows elation nor despondency. As if reading each other’s mind, they draw an extra blanket around their shoulders, as we can’t risk a campfire. Gorgrin, his wife, is well pregnant and, if the rumours are true, sick of his fussing. Drulag, still searching for a wife with Duzsia, the Relentless blood flowing in her veins. Beyond that condition, I don’t imagine he cares.
“Stay warm until I return,” I offer. They mumble a reply. “Be watchful. I am certain someone follows us. Riding Old Wolf into the mountains, I hope to return with Voria as quickly as possible.”
Lord Klar insisted they accompany me. I don’t grasp why, as riding Old Wolf, I can travel faster and further.
---
The path’s slope represented a challenge, and I dismounted from Old Wolf to save him from hardship. Duzsia assures me I’m on the right path despite the biting wind chill on my face. A vast ice sheet, high in the mountains, appears under a darkening evening sky. I take a step back. How? The old-growth forest still stands on either side while someone or something has obliterated everything in its path.
Duzsia shares the name of the who, with me. I stare, unsure of the time. The Abomination did this. I now appreciate the reason for Lord Klar’s concern.
“Vorlora!” Voria’s rasping voice surprises me as much as her flopping out of cover does. Her thin face is of greater concern.
Old Wolf licks her face until a radiate smile breaks out. I offer Voria a haunch of boar during this distraction, which she snatches from me.
Halfway through, I wrestle the haunch from her. “Your belly is full.” She throws me a rude glare, and I chuckle.
“His seed provides warmth and quenches thirst from the snow but doesn’t satisfy hunger.” Her fingers curl at me, pleading for the return of her meal.
“As long as you throw the bone to Old Wolf.” At her nod, I hand the meal back to her.
In between bites, she explains how she evades the goblins, concluding with her narrow escape from the Abomination.
“I need to find the goblin’s body,” I whisper to her.
She swallows and shakes her head. “I comprehend the abomination has left, yet, to return.” Her eyes beg me. “I can’t. Not yet, at least.”
“No. I wouldn’t ask you. Old Wolf and I will find him in the morning and return to you as quickly as possible.”
---
Staring at the frozen body under a warming sun, nothing changes. Duzsia’s voice is silent. Her worrying presence confirms she was supposed to finish this task by now. Whatever this is, it’s dragging on.
The goblin’s mouth is frozen open, and I instinctively slice my left hand and squeeze my fist to deliver several drops of blood onto his tongue.
After several heartbeats, Duzsia’s joy permeates my mind.
“How did you guess?” she asks.
“A hunch. I assumed we were to confirm that Voria still carried Izga’s dust. It wouldn’t make any sense to be here unless we were going to harvest this goblin’s dust, as well. Yet, nothing happened. So, it twigged. Why not try fresh nanorobots?”
“The goblin’s frozen state has caused the nanorobots in its blood to enter a kind of hibernation. With your blood added, they are waking them, but the process will still take time.”
I glance at Old Wolf, and with effortless loping strides, he melts away into the nearby forest to hunt.
The sun is overhead when the goblin’s legs vanish into dust after his other body parts, and the pile resting on them falls into his boots. I delicately remove his pants just as I did his other hollow clothes. Next, I lay, chest down, on the snow and ice, reaching into the goblin’s hole and chip away at the ice surrounding his boots.
Dusk is fast approaching when I return to a sleeping Voria with another bag of dust.
---SHILIGA, SCRIBE OF LORD KLAR POV
I urge my nanorobots to hasten my thin body, but even with their aid, I can’t catch up to Vorlora, Gorgrin, and Drulag.
Mid-afternoon, I still have the choice to return to Lord Klar and beg his forgiveness. If I continue, then what? Can I continue? The trail is vague at best, with several game trails joining haphazardly, any of which could be the wrong one to follow. I refrain from screaming out my frustration. The danger is great. Parchment, quill, and ink, which I can use except in combat, are all I carry with me. A wild animal would likely slay me.
“What do we have here? A stray, far from home?” A voice calls out, seemingly from nowhere and everywhere.
Panic rises within me. My once calm heart races. My body is ready to spring into action. Flight! No! I am Lord Klar’s scribe. I straighten, crossing my arms over my chest, clutching sheets of parchment there.
“Well met. Please take me to whoever is in charge. I am Lord Klar’s scribe and have his offer to present.”
My rapid heartbeat slows as a silence takes over. I should be dead, but I’m still alive. Hope rises within me.
“Lord Klar, you say?”
I confirm yes, but I’m unsure if they expected an answer.
---
I am blindfolded, yet they warn me of hazards and take care of me.
“Who do we have here?” asks a female voice.
“She says she is a Scribe from Lord Klar bearing an offer.” The derision and disbelief in his voice are plain.
“I sense you don’t trust her,” she replies humorously.
“How did Lord Klar discover us? She is alone. A piece of parchment is all that protects her from harm. Ridiculous!” he snorts.
“Remove her blindfold.”
I blink and find myself amongst goblins in a makeshift camp. Meagre possessions are in bundles, with a few bags and even fewer boxes.
“I am Grandmaster Sibia. Yes, we fled with almost nothing. So, what does fate offer us?”
Before exposing my foolishness, I discreetly cough. Someone had sliced through one of her nostrils. “I am Shiliga, Scribe to Lord Klar, and all he requests is loyalty. For this pledge of service, he will offer a village of cottages, food, and a purpose. The village isn’t grand, but it should provide shelter enough to survive the snow months. Beyond that, he makes no promises because it depends on whether you accept his protection.”
A general uproar breaks out across the camp, and while I didn’t imagine my offer to be harsh, perhaps I have overstepped. My concern melts away when she stands, and her angry face fixes on my goblin escort.
His eyes sweep the camp before he steps back, gesturing at something. Two large hobgoblins. One of them, at least, has sworn allegiance to Lord Klar.
I recognise their bellowing voices and decide to be stern with them before their tongues betray my foolish gambit. If they don’t cooperate, we will lose everything.
I swivel about, and before they can utter a word, I yell at Gorgrin and Drulag, surprising them.
“Where have you two been? You can’t protect me when you aren’t with me. Luckily, I am amongst the civilised. What do you have to say?
Their sword sheaths are empty, the goblins ensuring they behave at spear point. Gorgrin gapes, trying to find words. Drulag, though, promptly reacts to the situation.
“Apologies. We suspected we were being followed and momentarily left you to investigate. We called out for you to wait, but as you have previously mentioned, we must face you when you’re lost in thought.”
Gorgrin adds, “My apologies as well. In our haste to catch up to you, we weren’t as careful as we should’ve been and paid the price by being ambushed.”
“No harm done.” I swivel around to face Sibia.
“Would it be too much to return their weapons? A sign of trust between us,” I offer.
Sibia saunters back to her fallen log throne and lounges into a surviving bough. She snaps her fingers. “A sign of trust, then.”
I ignore, as best I can, Drulag and Gorgrin receiving their weapons and instead offer Sibia a piece of parchment. A word-for-word copy of what I said.
“There is no need for haste. Decide when you are ready, perhaps in the morning. With your permission, I would like to return to our camp.”
“Weren’t you strolling along the trail?” says a harsh voice behind me.
“Yes, of course. Our camp is above the trail. We would need to leave our camp occasionally to meet you.”
---
Around our campfire, we spoke little. I would hush them when either of them opened their mouths to speak instead of eating. They were assassins. As such, I am confident they would spy on our camp. Gorgrin and Drulag took turnabout guarding the camp overnight.
We broke our fast and hit the trail.
On reaching their campsite, the goblins had fled with all their possessions. Not what I expected.
“You certainly have a way with words, young scribe,” quips Gorgrin.
My withering stare, as intended, cuts off his chuckle.
---ZINIA, DAUGHTER OF LORD TORNGUL HEARTSPLITTER POV
“You, perching astride your huge cat, makes you a target, my daughter,” jests my father.
“You, perching astride your beast, is similar, father,” I retort.
Then we embrace, sharing a chuckle. The walls of his throne room trapping the noise from our joyful reunion.
In no time, we are sharing a meal with his wife in the chair next to him. Between bites, I share all the news I have. Especially about the High Priestess of Klug. Our trek through the forest and my recently acquired assassins swearing an oath of loyalty to me and training me in dagger fighting so I don’t cut myself. I am intentionally vague about how I gained my tiger, but he saw right through me.
I delicately, snippet after snippet, unveiled to him the secret of urn dust.
To finish, I mention the two Stone Corner retinue warrior goblins riding wolves.
“What are your plans now, daughter?” he asks.
“I am certain you grasp, like I do, that Klugak and Kreldak can’t be trusted.”
He smiles one of his knowing smiles. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“My new followers are busy recruiting goblins. Oh, before I forget, I have announced that I am the Commander of the Goblin Guards of Hobgoblin Town.” I flutter my eyelids. “I hope that meets with your approval, father.”
He busts out laughing. “A grand title, for sure. Did the Stone Corner goblins at least smile when you announced yourself?”
“No, why should they?”
“Never mind. Raise your Goblin Guards. We will need protection from any desperate survivors of the losing army and perhaps an attack from the winning army.”
“What of the abomination?”
He reaches across the table, his giant hands capturing mine. “We must trust Lord Klar. I am certain he will solve that dilemma.”
---SUDA, THE FAITHFUL POV
Her caress of freezing cold burns. I don’t fathom how I can be dead, and yet this mad bitch can not only grasp my spirit but force me to remain amongst the living instead of reaching for the light. On my death, my spirit always, without fail, reached for the light. Once there, I wait for rebirth. What now?
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
What is she expecting? My spirit envelops my former pubescent body. Why? What is she waiting for me to do, precisely? It isn’t a warm, breathing body. It’s an ice-cold corpse. Did she somehow, after death, return to her body? It’s the simple explanation, however impossible, that has any chance of making sense.
I mouth the words, ‘I don’t understand or know how,’ and close my mouth.
She throws my spirit across the small clearing. She must regret her rashness right away as she storms after me. I fix my aim on the light and rise, urging haste. Wonderfully, my pace of ascent increases enough to evade her desperate lunge to recapture me.
Her eyes track me. On a whim, I descend and circle behind her. Her body rotates to face me. I realise after a time that my dead body acts as a tether. Usually, when I ascend, I am so disappointed I want nothing to do with my body. Returning to the light and gaining another chance is a desperate need. An unexplained and ever-present condition. Now, though, not so much.
Her cold death grip has changed something. Finally, I feel in control.
Below me, though, she bends over, resting her hands on her knees. Her body labours to straighten and take a step, and each step after that requires enormous willpower. Drops of water form on her blue-green skin. Coldness no longer radiates from her body.
I follow.
She struggles to continue throughout the night.
As the sun rises, genuine fear spreads over her face. Floating above her, though, I note the mountain snowline is close—perhaps close enough to save her from her folly. The drops of water are now rivulets, the number increasing as her struggle continues.
Sunlight hits her face, and she collapses to her hands and knees. An instant row of sweat beads pop from her forehead, join and roll off her face. There is no reflective ice shine. Her forehead skin and sprouting hair sloughing off, sliding into her eyes, blinding her. The bone white of her skull gleams in the morning light.
My first thought is to fetch fire and finish what her hubris has started. Without a body, I can only bear witness.
Half of her head is bone when she crawls into the first fingers of snow. The snow a moment later melts. She pushes forward and crashes into more snow. That snow quickly melts. This continues to repeat until she reaches deep snow. The snow melts beneath her, but the depth is such that she doesn’t need to lunge forward to dive into more. She sinks instead.
When she finally surfaces, rising out of the snow despite the sun shining down, the top and forehead of her head are bone encased in ice, devoid of blue-green skin and the pretence of hair. All semblance of being a frozen hobgoblin is gone.
She stares directly at me, and I jolt. How is that possible? My body is a fair distance down the mountain. No longer do I sense any tether, any restraint. Why don’t I rise towards the light?
Her hands take turns, mimicking a rope pull. Then, my spirit jerks in her direction, descending towards her. No, I silently shout. How could I have been so foolish? Somehow, I have transferred my tether to her. Did her grip on me earlier make this possible? What does it matter? I must escape. How?
I seek the light. There is no other choice.
Why did I wait until she regained her strength?
I crave to be one with the light. With all my willpower, I force myself to rise.
The warmth of the rising sun welcomes me. I rise. Below me, she eases into cover under trees lower down the mountain. As she does, I gain height as her grip on my spirit tether slips. I can’t work out why, but I am certain sunlight weakens her. It’s the only explanation. However, once she is in the shade, her strength settles and then increases.
I will not reach the light. My tether to her has no more stretch to give, and I yield height to her first tug downward.
There remains one last chance. Instead of up, I head downwards but maintain my distance from her. As this arc of travel meets the ground, I can merely hope.
The ground below me is familiar. I watched her crawl over it during the night. My sight follows her trail down the mountain, and I glimpse my body in the distance. Instantly, I cast a spirit tether towards my body. This casting is imagination and willpower. A spirit tether must be a thing, real; otherwise, what grip does she have on me? When tracking her, I must have done this or something similar, but without thought. The first tug back to my body started a transfer to her body.
Now, I must complete the reverse. I am uncertain what to do, yet I am urging a return to my body and growing the strength of my tether seems right.
I gain a slight purchase on my body. The thinnest, the weakest of connections. I throw all my willpower into the connection, none into resisting her, hauling me towards her.
My body is now the focus of my tether. This is my resistance to her efforts instead of direct opposition.
We are equal. Neither of us can gain an advantage.
As the middle of the day approaches, I jolt closer to my body. The jolt’s strength and frequency increase around midday until I sense the snap, and my spirit flies towards my body. I soar over my body and rise. The light calls to me. It’s the natural way of things, and I release my control over my spirit.
A tug on my spirit sparks an immediate panic. I dive towards my body to discover Beastbane female hobgoblins are carrying my body down the mountainside. When they stop, my body is first on a stacked log platform.
The females of Clan Beastbane are preparing other bodies for the funeral pyre. I am no one important, although I recognise the others. Sons of Jarlgren. This must be an act of petty revenge on their part. They intend to add my body to the pyre and spoil the ceremony. A pathetic slave female joins the sons of Jarlgren in their journey to the afterlife.
I don’t see any other spirits lingering around their bodies. Few can see and return to the light.
Clan Head Jarlgren and his remaining sons join the ceremony. The honour guard of hunters chases the women from the site they have laboured at until dusk. My spirit stands beside Clan Head Jarlgren as he lights a torch and fires the funeral pyre.
I didn’t realise a simple fact until too late.
Without a body, my tether ceases. My spirit rises towards the light. The bitch changed me. I don’t have to rise and return to the light if I can find another body.
I search for my blood. The Clan Head, his sons and the honour guard are not of my lineage. As I widen the search circle, I sense the draw of the light strengthening. This is the way of things. Will I have the choice still after my next death? To remain?
Several Beastbane females observe from afar. All aren’t of my lineage. I didn’t expect any of Clan Beastbane to match my lineage.
Completing this final ever-widening search circle, I detect two life forces. Goblins, likely spies. One isn’t of my lineage. The other, the other is! My excitement distracts me. I must think.
What now? The light brought me back to a recently deceased member of my family lineage. This goblin is most certainly alive. I tether my spirit to the blood of my distant relative. The draw towards the light grows, and I rise. I commit my entire being to this slim tether, and as I do, the chill of the night air swirls around my distant relative. Is this because of the bitch? Has her freezing grip scarred my spirit?
I gather the swirl of chill and form it into a tight ball, then punch through my descendant’s body and target her heart.
Her spirit doesn’t fly towards the light but scatters into the night. I descend into the corpse of my relative, as I have done countless times before.
“Vrozila, why are you so cold?” says the other goblin. Her hands are busy rubbing my limbs, and then she must detect the coldness of my heart and rub it there. My new heart doesn’t respond to my will. Then I welcome her body’s warmth on mine. Her flesh warming my flesh. My spirit wills my heart to pump. The first weak pulse is lifesaving. The second is more so. As fresh blood pulses through my new heart, the lack of chill allows strength to return. My companion’s body warmth radiates towards mine, and with each heartbeat, my new body returns to life.
The hard nipples of her breasts wakening me to our flesh-on-flesh closeness. On the cool night breeze, the mumblings of the Clan Head, his remaining sons and the honour guard trudge back to the Clan Hall. I am confident we are safe, yet my companion doesn’t roll off me.
I lay still. My nipples are firm. Do I welcome this female intimacy? I had convinced myself the night air was the cause. What would Zeb, my husband, say? He enjoyed our coupling. I did my duty and birthed two children, Koria and Luda. None could fault my commitment to the Flint Arrows tribe.
Lord Farmer Hob’s meddling was our downfall. He stole my family from me and is now nothing but dust. I can never sate my revenge. The Klugites who followed after his death were worse. The internal reconciliation of that reality took several spirit rebirths because my descendants were always the lowest of the low. This current body, though, was different.
The slinking of her body on mine sends excitement to my loins. This isn’t me. The former owner of this body is to blame. A hot breath caresses my neck. I swallow and close my eyes. My body refuses to shift away or otherwise break this spell I am under.
“Don’t you want this?” asks a sultry voice.
I release a breath instead of replying.
Her lips slide down the edges of my ear and send tingles of sexual glee to my loins. A stab of pain. Her teeth withdraw from my ear lobe. I am in shock. A spot in the middle of my loins swirls in pure pleasure. How did she know? Not remembering how, my legs are now over hers, drawing our bodies together tighter, trying to be one instead of two.
Light kisses dance my neck, the wetness cooling to chill following in their wake. My back tries to lift in an arch.
Her lips are about my breasts. The flesh of the mounds, the stiffness of my nipples. First one, then the other, she assaults. I am too weak and too ruined by the discovery of ecstasy to mount any resistance. My final thought as I volunteer my body up to this wonder of a companion is if Zeb had pleasured me so, I am certain we would have had more children or at least more attempts to do so.
---VORLORA, WOLF RIDER AND CONCUBINE OF LORD KLAR POV
“I left two and returned to find three, yet I smell nothing but disappointment,” I say with some amusement.
Gorgrin and Drulag squat opposite Shiliga, the scribe, around a dying campfire. Yet none rushed for their weapons before I spoke. At the very least, the goblin should have heard my approach and warned the two deaf hobgoblins.
Instead, three forlorn faces greet me as I assist Voria down from Old Wolf. Gorgrin at least climbs to his feet to assist and settle Voria into a blanket beside the campfire.
As they tell me their tale, I stoke the campfire to life. Then roast some wild game, courtesy of Old Wolf, over the flames for Voria and me.
“Wait a day for Voria to regain all her strength, and then all return to Lord Klar. I am certain he would find the scribe’s plan amusing.” I shrug. “The goblin village isn’t being used now and will provide them shelter through the snow months. I can’t fault the idea or the plan.”
“What will you do?” the scribe asks.
“I will track and catch up with the goblins and convince them they have chosen poorly.” I flash a big grin.
---
If all the goblins had been assassins, tracking them would have been impossible, or at least it would have taken longer. I didn’t search further into the mountains or from their original direction. This left towards the river or Lord Klar’s settlement. Searching wide sweeping arcs proved effective because they couldn’t eliminate every false step. As Old Wolf and I gained on them, he picked up their scent, and then we followed in a direct line.
Watching them cross the river from afar was a better alternative to surprising them by announcing our presence or their scouts finding us first. Either could cause panic amongst them and lead to lives being lost. I hoped waiting until the end of the day would exhaust most of them, making them more inclined to listen.
With a superior sense of smell, excellent hearing and motivation, goblins were difficult creatures to surprise. Distraction always worked best when we hunted Oath Keepers. I hoped the same applied to assassins and their non-assassin baggage.
Yelps of warning and screams of dismay informed me that someone had spotted Old Wolf. They were now circling into a protective circle, possibly around a central campfire. With them hurrying towards the centre, the chance of goblins ambushing me was less likely.
She was easy to spot. Several watchful assassins surrounded her while the Grandmaster directed her subjects and their defence.
---
“Hail, Grandmaster Sibia,” I shout across the din and general scurrying. Had they never seen an enormous wolf before?
All eyes focus on me. Several whispers mention Duzsia the Relentless, while others speak of a second name, Duzsia the Deathless. The second was unexpected. Did the rumours confuse my position, not accepting Duzsia’s death?
“I am not Duzsia the Relentless. My Mistress is dead. All I have inherited is her armour and, I hope, some of her skill.”
The assassins advance in my direction as one, while the farmers and crafters with the young shy away. Sibia shoots me a sharp glance. Old Wolf appears by my side as she opens her mouth to speak. Her words die in her throat. The assassins halt their advance, their eagerness for an easy kill being recalculated with each breath they take.
“As an emissary of Lord Klar, I offer peace. A few days ago, Lord Klar’s scribe made your tribe an offer.”
Grandmaster Sibia strides towards me, her assassin’s parting before her in protest, voicing their concerns.
“She could have been anyone? Her escorts, one the bastard son of Clan Head Jarlgren and the other unknown by name or reputation. Would you trust your tribe to such as them?”
I cross my arms over my chest and broaden my stance. “So, you sulk off instead of presenting yourself to Lord Klar with his written promise?”
“So they can capture and imprison us for ransom?”
“When has Lord Klar ever committed such a betrayal? At worst, he could have called the parchment false and sent you on your way. I would presume you would send emissaries of your own into Lord Klar’s fort first.”
She sighs. “These are difficult times for us. An unknown enemy has destroyed our citadel, and for the first time in many generations, we are homeless and landless. We can’t be too cautious.” She throws her head back and chuckles. “The offer seemed too good to be true. A Hobgoblin offering shelter to a tribe of goblins.”
“The village did house a tribe of Oath Keepers. It is empty now because he granted them their freedom from slavery when they finished the work they promised him. Is that a deed of a goblin hater?”
“Would Lord Klar welcome us now?”
I shrug. “My scribe wasn’t the one insulted. But he typically decides things for himself.” I brighten up. “You can try to make a better second impression?”
“Me? Sending an emissary initially would be preferable.”
“Certainly, but I believe that option is now lost to you.”
Many of the assassins murmur, and some whisper protesting advice to her or offer to go in her stead. Her hand wave quiets them.
“We leave now. I assume your wolf can carry both of us?” she offers.
“At night?”
“Others whispered that Duzsia the Relentless could see in the dark. As her apprentice, I would expect you to be her equal in at least that, or am I wrong?”
A goblin’s ability to see in the dark for a short distance is common lore. Something extraordinary in a hobgoblin. Was the Grandmaster guessing? Trying to figure out Duzsia’s legend and hopeful that seeing in the dark was one advantage she had.
“My wolf will guide us at night, so we need not to be concerned.” Grabbing a handful of fur as I swivel, I leap on Old Wolf’s back. My Mistress has been talking to me all this time, amused by this goblin’s caution, yet respectful. Leading and being entrusted with the health and well-being of many lives is never easy.
I offer my hand to the Grandmaster.
She whispers over her shoulder and then steps forward to accept. I swing her up to straddle Old Wolf’s back before me. I wanted to avoid being stabbed in the back.
---
Into the black of the night, Old Wolf lopes long without protest, although I believe our combined weight will test him. The distance to Lord Klar’s village is a greater test.
“What can I expect when before him?”
“What was your last message to them before you departed?” I reply.
“Nothing special, except to follow in time. Worst case, we are on the right bank of the river to make our way to Hobgoblin Town if Lord Klar rejects my offer.”
“Who sliced your cheek?”
Her body tenses and then relaxes. “Why would that be important?”
“I once suffered from an arrow piercing both my cheeks. His offer to you may be more generous than you could hope.”
---
At dawn, we reach the outskirts of the goblin village and dismount. I release Old Wolf to hunt, but I detect his exhaustion. Once out of sight, he will rest.
“Does your wolf need to hunt often?” she asks.
I grin at her. “Merely when hungry.”
Her cheeky slap on my shoulder is encouraging. I guess being pressed against another body, even a hobgoblin one, for the night, is an exercise in trust.
“The village appears run down.” My look must giveaway my disappointment. “It won’t be a challenge for my crafters to fix, though. We would welcome the shelter.”
---
When the middle of the afternoon arrives, there is a substantial period of waiting, which I suspect tests Grandmaster Sibia’s commitment.
The door of the small hut opens and casts sunlight over us. Shiliga, the scribe, whooshes in to join us.
The Grandmaster stands until Shiliga seats herself. The goblin is extending herself to be courteous. Her set jaw suggests she is swallowing buckets full of pride.
Shiliga unrolls and pushes a piece of parchment before the Grandmaster.
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.