“Bathe and get dressed. Hurry, we have work to do, sister-wife,” I growl. Her blood! In her veins flows the blood of Lord Klug’s son, blah blah. Well, she is nothing, I tell myself. Nothing. I have absorbed much of Lord Klug’s seed and have manipulated and enhanced my body and senses. More recently, I have purified my blood to an honourable lineage. I am more than her equal, more I say.
Yet, the outside world reality is different, the goblin wise woman and her verdict on my blood named me insignificant, which cut deep. As a concubine of Lord Klar, I rose, and then the blood verdict of a tribal goblin brought me low. Lord Klar’s advice, to refine my blood, was a lifeline, yet I wouldn’t be able to allow the wise woman to read my blood again because of the impossibility. None can change their blood. An entire goblin tribe, one which whom we will share the land, will know I have no worthwhile linage.
I wonder what the wise woman will make of her blood, though. Lord Klug’s sons would surely be like a taboo or a holy enemy, or some such. Perhaps a bleeding wound when near the wise woman would provide an answer to that question. But why would Lord Klar marry her? Maybe the keep your enemies close theory.
“I am ready, sister-wife,” she says. The meekness in her voice is unbelievable, but what can I say?
“I am certain you can lead us both to the middle floor bedrooms, western section.”
“Yes, sister-wife.”
Off she toddles, all meek and apologetic, and I follow close behind, trying not to vomit.
The open door is an invitation, and without hesitation, she enters as if she owns the room. So much for knowing her place. I follow and discover, like her, that none we expect to greet are present. I pick up sheets off the floor and throw them on the bed. Kick loose clothes into a corner. Do we wait?
“There you two are. Come on down to the stables. We are finishing preparations, beasts, and luggage,” says Voria of all people.
Before I can ask for an explanation, the former honour guard disappears.
“It seems you don’t command her even though she would be but a servant of Lord Klar,” Klaria snipes.
I hold back the urge to clip her behind the ear and rush out of our former bedroom instead, leaving the shrew to decide for herself.
Holding back the night pre-dawn, hanging torches cast a yellow waving light on the stable area. Six beasts are being saddled before my eyes by the stable hands. Thalgora is amongst them equally helping and ordering them about, with Voria joining her. Lord Klar would need to mount one beast. Thalgora, a given for a second and I assume much to my disgust Klaria would mount a third. Zergoa another. Zoria and Duzsia the last two? This means I will need to double, as will Luda. What about Voria? Does she follow on foot?
“We aren’t ready, Lord. The day will break before we are, so we must make alternative plans,” says Dorgrav, his open hands waving about, eyes full of concern shifting between the stables and Lord Klar.
Luda leans on Lord Klar, the back of her head resting on Lord Klar’s chest. I so wish to be there. His arms wrap around Luda and cross over her chest, while his head shakes in absolute denial. “She will not make the journey inside a box.”
His growl stills the entire courtyard. While all I see is Luda’s hardening nipples rise beneath her linen shirt and her thighs draw together. I so wish to be there.
“None can spot a goblin on the streets of Hobgoblin Town from dawn to dusk. There is no other way,” Dorgrav whines.
“Thalgora!” shouts Lord Klar, while his embrace squeezes and rubs against Luda’s chest. Flaming torchlight flickers over Luda’s face, revealing her glistening lips. Is she drooling?
Thalgora pops her head up from within a stable stall and then rushes to her husband. “Yes, husband?”
This fierce muscular female hobgoblin warrior, taller than many, male or female, who terrifies most who meets her, does Lord Klar’s bidding with the eagerness of an innocent maiden, eyes full of adoration. I fully understand, yet can’t explain why she does. For me and my other sisters, our spirit link is an unbreakable bond of devotion. What binds her so completely to him?
Lord Klar releases Luda and vaults into the saddle of his beast.
“You are in charge.” His words are absolute. Thalgora grows taller somehow and all in the stable area pay attention. I simply shiver with envy. “See, everyone is ready and leaves as soon as possible. Luda and I will wait for you on the road beyond Hobgoblin Town.”
“Are you certain, Lord? To ready, another beast won’t take long…”
He leans down, his fingers worming their way through her hair to pull her closer. An admiring glance into her eyes, and then he steals a passionate kiss from her lips. I touch mine as he replies, “Another beast will mean leaving some goods behind. Even my beast, travelling light will force some reorganisation of the remaining loads.” He grabs Luda’s willing hand and hoists her up to sit before him, while a light green blush spreads across Thalgora’s face.
“As you command, husband.” She waves him on and then, looking at the gate, shouts, “Open the gate!”
While wondering who I will ride with, my eyes stare off into the gloom around the opening gate and, by chance, discern movement. I slip into a nearby shadow and creep towards my quarry. The shadow of Lord Klar’s beast aids my haste. As the guards pull the gates closed, a stone hitting the inside wall draws their attention. Utilising the distraction, my quarry, a stable hand, slips through the open gate. I don’t have time to answer guard questions and in a heartbeat; I slip through the open gate and pursue her.
I crouch and peer around the corner of the gatehouse pillar. The builders set the gate back a way so defenders can drop nasty stuff upon any attackers beating on the gate itself. My quarry sidles along the northern wall, heading west, whereas Lord Klar and Luda headed east. Is that good or bad I wonder?
She turns south once the northern wall of the manor ends. I sprint to reach the same corner and peer around. My quarry chats earnestly to a goblin gang and then one goblin runs off south. The other goblins produce a ladder from somewhere and it doesn’t take a genius to realise their intent. I race back to the gate and tap on the thick hardwood with the pommel of my dagger.
“Who goes there?”
“Izga, a concubine of Lord Klar, open is his name, please.” I hope begging politeness will encourage questionless haste instead of ranting and raving at the persons who, at their whim, will or won’t decide to open the gate.
The gate cracks open and one of the guard’s faces peers out. She smiles as I am certain she recognises me and as soon as the gate opens wide enough; I am through and racing into the manor heading for the western side, the second floor. I pass several closed doors before reaching the open door to our room at the end of the long corridor. Am I too late? Has he climbed the ladder already and is therefore gone, or did the ladder reach to the third floor? I doubt myself when low chatter alerts me to others in the room next to ours. Are the walls that thin? What about our intimate moments with Lord Klar? I shake my head. Not important now. Do I burst in? No, I need information, not a fight, therefore capturing the stable hand is my priority. I race down the corridor, to ensure I settle behind the handrail post at the top of the circular stairs well before the stable hand exits his room. My gaze fixes on a single closed door, and all I can do is lay in wait.
Having second thoughts, I spring from my hide and put out the nearby corridor candle. I then slink back against the handrail post into a deeper gloom.
After the hurry, there is a wait. What is keeping her?
If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have believed it. The former stable hand who steps out of the room next to ours now wears the livery and armour of a manor guard. I shake my head and then my eyes open wide. She strolls down the corridor, checking the closed doors. My body coils up, ready to spring. I study her routine; check door handle, nod, move to the next, repeat. While standing in front of the door closest to the stairs, I pounce, my dagger’s edge caressing her throat.
“Who do you report to?”
“Help!” she yells.
She is calling for help. How does that work? I have caught her in an act of betrayal, haven’t I?
I hear them before I see them. Two of Lord Torngul’s honour guards are the first to respond. Their splendid black embossed and hardened leather armour shines under the flickering candlelight within the manor until they close on me and my captive. One of the honour guards glances at the dead corridor candle above us.
“Get this mad person off me. I was checking the doors, and she put a dagger to my throat!”
The honour guards recognise me, yet not in a good way. I remember smacking one in the face and dragging the other with an abundance of roughness off Luda.
“She was a stable hand,” I protest. They exchange doubtful looks. “She reported to a goblin gang along the west wall and then they used a ladder so she could climb back into the manor and then I guess she changed clothes and armour.” My words tumble from my lips, why I am trying to defend the truth when she is the guilty one?
“Where did she do this quick-change act?” asks one, while crossing her arms.
“The second last room.” I flick my head towards the door.
“You just wait here with your prisoner. We will search the room and return.” They exchange smirks. They think the situation is a joke of some sort and I have somehow gone mad…
My prisoner waits without resistance and doesn’t even raise a sweat. She must know her stable hand clothes aren’t there. Perhaps that was the reason for the chatter, deciding on risk, leave them, take them. Discuss what to do the next time if there were no clothes in the room? Perhaps with Lord Klar gone, there won’t be a next time. This means the guard intends to resign in a few days and return to her true master.
“We must ask you to release our manor guard. The room was empty, and we needed to unlock the door before entering.”
I hesitate. What can I say? I glance at the pair of honour guards. They both favour one leg with hands upon the pommel of their respective swords. I withdraw my dagger. My prisoner rushes towards the honour guards while rubbing her neck.
“My shift is almost done. I think I will retire for the night to recover. Can you cover this floor until my relief arrives?”
“Yeah sure,” drawls one of the honour guards.
My prisoner takes her leave, no rush, taking a superior saunter down the circular stairs. My eyes follow her until she disappears from view. I bend over from a blind punch to my stomach. I control tumble down a couple of steps to escape their easy reach while remaining in a ball of agony, trying to draw in a breath.
“That’s for earlier.” I feel her foot on my hip and then a sharp push. “That’s for the inconvenience now.”
I tumble down the wide stairs, and with my head tucked in, I should only suffer a few bruises if they don’t follow to continue the punishment. I stay as I am until I hear them exchange trash talk and snicker at their jokes.
As I climb to my feet, I feel a tap on my shoulder. My head cranes around, and I exhale in relief. Thalgora.
“We have been searching for you.”
I tell her about my encounter with the stable hand spy who turned into a manor guard who I assume has now escaped.
“And father’s honour guard didn’t believe you?”
“It doesn’t matter now. I would like to know who the spy reported to.”
“You can stop wondering. Given she reported to night goblins, I am certain Clan Head Sakvorpa of the Eater Clan is her master.”
“When do we leave?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “We should be able to leave now, but one of the loaded beasts became lame. The boar needed to be unloaded and then another made ready. Also, the stable hands, most were helpful, a couple worse than useless, which is why I jumped in to help and direct.”
Of course, Clan Head Sakvorpa. How could I overlook her hand in all of this? I curse under my breath. “These inconveniences smell of deliberate delay. The spy to report when Lord Klar left the manor alone with Luda, an essential part of her plans.”
“I am needed to hurry this along. How do you feel about following our husband? I will make up some excuse for your absence in case other spies wait to report on us.”
“Can I borrow your water skin? Otherwise, I am ready.”
Thalgora hands me her waterskin and our hands touch. “Be careful. I am certain Lord Klar would grieve over your death.”
Returning to our room, I borrow three sheets and knot them together as I make my way to the eastern side of the manor. I hear the two honour guards, and before they see me, I wait in the shadows for them to pass by. Afterwards, I find a convenient window, tie off the sheet rope and shimmy down the wall. Picking up a rock, I toss it through the open window. Nothing. After several more rocks, the honour guards peer out of the window. They find the bedsheets and haul them back into the manor. I wait until they once again scan the surroundings and then sneak off, keeping to the shadows of the surrounding town buildings. Heading east means as the sun rises, dawn's shade will provide ample cover, yet I believe the town will be well behind me by then.
Astride our boars, we amble out of Hobgoblin Town utilising the eastern packed dirt road, needing to shade our eyes against the post-dawn rising sun. Klaria, as the second wife, insists she rides beside me, while Duzsia and Zergoa ride as the next pair, and Zoria and Voria ride as the last pair. Voria was fortunate that the lame boar had made a miraculous recovery as we were preparing to leave, otherwise, she would have been walking.
Looking under my shading hand, I see, yet I don’t believe it. I raise my arm to signal a halt while observing four nondescript goblin slaves hauling a hobgoblin upon their shoulders. Their threadbare clothes and skinny bodies are typical of goblin slaves in this valley, recognisable at almost any distance. Those riders on beasts following mine flank me on either side and as one we rest our hands upon our saddle pommels and observe. At some point, one or more of the goblins look up and at different times, they drop their portion of the body to run, resulting in an awkward, comical collapse. I chuckle at them, at least. They do have a plan though, scattering in four different directions, disappearing into the long grass on either side of the road.
Their daylight presence was a surprise. Yet by the laws of the valley, we were no longer in Hobgoblin Town.
As one, we nudge our boars forward until the face-down female hobgoblin is beneath our gaze. Duzsia and Zoria throw the reins of their boars to Zergoa and Voria and slide from their mounts.
Duzsia and Zoria roll the body over and take a step back. The left eye socket is a mess. Zoria peers forward.
“Arrow to the eye,” she reports, the obvious. “Either the goblins have taken the arrow as a trophy, which I doubt, or more likely, the archer has recovered the arrow for re-use. Something an archer would do when facing many foes and still fighting or after winning the melee.”
Duzsia sinks to her haunches. “This seems like something Lord Klar would do, the accuracy of the archery alone. The corpse in tight-fitting black, soft leather suggests an assassin though. They would not want to challenge anyone in an open one-on-one melee and yet from the wound, they faced their slayer.”
“Mount up, we will hurry on,” I growl.
Is Lord Klar in danger and this is his first fallen foe? So much time has passed, and I asked Izga to scout after him. Have I sent her into the same trap they set for Lord Klar? Duzsia and Zoria are so matter of fact about this corpse, I don’t understand their complacency.
The second group of four goblins spot us before we see them. The advantage of the sun behind them, I assume. They are haring off into the long grass by the time we notice them. We didn’t even see them drop anything and as we ride forward under a rising sun, there will be no need to dismount. The female assassin lay on her back. Again an empty black and bloody eye socket stare back at us.
“We must hurry.” I urge my beast forward. After several heartbeats, I sense I am alone. I glance over my shoulder and discover my sisters are where I left them, including Voria, the ungrateful bitch. Last time I risk the wrath of my father on her behalf, she can walk next time. Wheeling around, I ride back and rein in before them.
“Didn’t you hear your First Wife? Plus, Lord Klar left me in command in his stead, and I say we must make haste.”
What is wrong with them? Don’t they believe Lord Klar is in danger?
“I doubt anyone can slay Lord Klar,” says one of them in a pompous voice.
I look about for the source of the voice. Klaria? What would our newest sister know, which I don’t? I witness the colour drain from the faces of my other sisters. They have a similar misgiving or do they since they disobeyed me as well? A frown on her forehead. Voria seems as lost as me.
“What Klaria is saying is that Lord Klar is an accomplished archer. The assassins aren’t sneaking up on him, which suggests he is in a strong defensive position,” says Duzsia.
“Also,” adds Zergoa. “Luda accompanied him, and she is the sneakiest of goblins.”
“I am also certain our goblin sister has had her fill of Lord Klar’s seed,” snipes Klaria. For a reason, that is pure mystery, trying to make a point I don’t comprehend. I know Lord Klar’s seed is invigorating, having received my fill frequently, but how does that make a significant difference to Luda? Klaria’s statement, though, seems to suggest an implied meaning of some importance to those who already know something, given the lack of further explanation.
I feel several pats on my shoulder and swivel to face my comforter.
“As our newest sister, Klaria seems slighted as we all know Lord Klar is proficient in love making and receiving his seed is an honour and a pleasure,” says Zoria with heavy emotion in her voice.
“That is…”
Zergoa slaps the rump of Klaria’s boar before she can finish. Duzsia, Zoria and Zergoa burst into riotous laughter, while Voria chuckles. Klaria shows off her riding skill and is quick to regain command of her boar, while Zergoa digs in her heels and rides out to meet her. Duzsia and Zoria nudge their beasts forward, which means I must turn my body in my saddle to witness the confrontation.
Duzsia and Zoria’s laughter drowns out whatever chance I have of eavesdropping on Klaria and Zergoa’s shouting match. I nudge my boar forward and turnabout. As I approach Klaria and Zergoa, their faces glowing green, they run out of words.
“We must hurry to Lord Klar, yet first we must break our fast First Wife,” says Duzsia.
Zoria continues, “The sun continues to rise and if we continue, depending on when we will be blind to any ambushers waiting for us. Stopping to eat and prepare will allow the sun to rise some more and ensure we ride to the rescue and not ride into whatever situation has or hasn’t befallen our Lord.”
Somehow, I feel handled. Lord Torngul, Klugak and, to a lesser extent, Dorgrav would try the same tactics to soften my rough edges or curb my rasher solutions, which in the main involve the spilling of blood first and last. I remember their machinations trying to restrain my efforts to hunt all the goblins who murdered my mother. And their goblin relatives, of course. After all, the dead can’t bother you and their deaths can gift you a worthwhile bonus. The deaths can make other family members braver than they are, thinking some misguided notion of honourable revenge will protect them. Instead, they present themselves to you. This saves a great deal of time as you don’t need to waste any effort to identify and find them. This eases any frustration you may suffer while wasting time searching for the cowards.
Perhaps I should remain agreeable, allow my sisters to believe they have handled me. That way, it should be easier to find some alone time with Klaria. The fresh, and I believe insecure and beyond a doubt proud, new second wife may talk and, if I belittle her ego with choice word games, reveal more than she should.
---
After breaking my fast on cheese and an apple, I sip on a morning wine, deep red, fruity and sweet. A rare wine, an indulgence to be certain, which I carry with me because of a simple circumstance. The Manor is no longer my home. I sigh with over-the-top delight. This, I decide, is my bait. Voria I remember has partaken in wine drinking, while Klaria, never. Klugak forbid the entire family if I remember correctly. Most children want to do what their father has forbidden them. I hope Klaria is the same.
“Are you going to share?” asks Klaria.
I raise an eyebrow in her direction. “Didn’t your family pack and gift you with all manner of goods and chattels?”
“Yes.” Her eyes lower as she whispers, “My father didn’t permit wine. We all suspected his opposition because of the expense rather than any other reason.”
I thought, like Klaria, her whisper low enough, yet Duzsia, Zoria and Zergoa all burst into laughter. Only Voria presents a quizzical face. Klaria’s face turns bright green and rising to her feet, she flees from our sight. I shake my head and chuckle. This, I know for certain, is my chance. None before presented an opportunity, like when we staked out the boars or unpacked our stores to break our fast, as one of the three would make it their business to help or be nearby, to offer advice, even if obvious. For an unknown reason, I failed to convince them they had handled me. Their protective behaviour, though, more than anything else, convinced me there is a secret to uncover. Voria, though, seems as clueless as I, and for that reason alone, I am glad she travels with us. She will represent the ordinary, a mere servant of Lord Klar and I presume unaware of his or his wives’ secrets. Her reactions will provide me with a guide to measure against. The first being she didn’t hear Klaria’s whisper as I expected, while the three did, somehow.
With well-practised skill, I pour a glass of wine for each of my sisters and Voria. Except for Voria who knows and sips, they down their second glass as I leave them another bottle, feigning the need to relieve myself. I make to leave and then return several heartbeats later for my glass with a chuckle, raising my glass in salute.
Walking away from camp, I am deliberate in my choice of direction. The same side of the road as Klaria yet further along. Klaria, I suspect, will find me, as she wouldn’t have run far, and I have a sneaky suspicion she watches our camp even now wondering who will care enough to find and console her. For bait, my hand holding the half-full wine glass sweeps about, forward and back while the neck of a second bottle protrudes from my carry bag. To her, wine is the forbidden fruit, the cause of their laughter at her expense. If I have misjudged her, at the very least, I will use the time away to drain the glass and my bladder.
Not too far from the road, I stomp a circle in the long grass, then drop my pants and squat down on my haunches. I take a sip and wait.
“Can I hold your glass?” Her quiet, begging words are music to my ears.
“Certainly. Please take a couple of sips. As Second Wife to Lord Klar, you are no longer under your father’s thumb.”
“Yes,” she says.
As I hand off the glass, she radiates a wondrous smile. Her fingers are firm and secure around the glass as if she holds a life-changing treasure and, perhaps to her, she does.
Two quick sips and then she nurses the glass close to her chest. I think her body even sways. Delight? Joy? She can’t be drunk yet, could she? Surely not.
“Finish. There is another bottle.” Reaching into the carry bag resting beside me, I retrieve the bottle, pull the bung out, and set the bottle on the ground. Her shoes shift closer.
“We must allow the wine to breathe first. Our patience, I am certain, will be its own reward.”
She grunts and then empties my glass of wine down her throat.
I pull up my pants, pick up the bottle, and climb to my feet. My eyes meet hers. She offers the glass and I pour her a mouthful. Her face sours and it takes all the control I have not to laugh. “Drink, but don’t swallow. Swish the wine in your mouth.” As she does, I continue, “If the wine is good, swallow. If not, spit it out.”
She guzzles and straight arms the empty glass towards the bottle. I fill the glass. In knowledgable company I would, of course, half fill the glass, but I sense her urgent desire for more.
“Your father would, I assume, be yelling at you now, would he not?”
She wiggles a finger. “He, erm.” Hic. “He. I would tell him a truth to his face.” After a firm nod, she takes another sip.
“Perhaps you should try your words with me first, so you can be certain of your message?”
She raises a finger and blinks. “Father! You are not my father, never was, never will be. Which means I could’ve had wine whenever I wanted to.”
I reply in a deep voice. “Of course, I am your father.”
She smiles and nods. “Good.” Hic. “We can pretend.” One hand secures the glass of wine, while the other shifts her breast wrap, a casual adjustment as she corrects her posture. “My loyal friend had my blood read.” She closes her eyes and remains silent.
I need to nudge her along; it seems. “That is a snivelling goblin practice. No daughter of mine would taint her family's honour so.”
“Foolish petty male,” she gasps. “I am a descendant of Klugrath’s line.” Bending over slightly, she waggles her finger before her face, forgetting I am certain I tower over her, her waggling finger lines up with my breasts instead of my face. “The son of Lord Farmer Klug himself, who walks amongst us!” Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, while her eyes perform a slow shift left and then a slow shift right.
Does Klugrath or Lord Farmer Klug walk amongst us? Lord Farmer Klug, is that the same hobgoblin as Lord Farmer Hob, the master of farming, the father of civilisation? The Klugites worship a god, a Lord Klug from which they take their name. Are these three names for one hobgoblin or three different hobgoblins? Well, Lord Farmer Hob and Lord Klug can’t walk amongst us if the legends are true, so perhaps this other hobgoblin, Lord Farmer Klug, lives amongst us?
“Boarcrap,” I snarl, casting off any pretence.
She straightens, rocks back somewhat and then wobbles before regaining her balance. “You doubt.” Hic. “Me?”
“Of course, you second-rate hobgoblin bitch trying to marry up from a desperate family of no name,” I curse her with venom in my voice.
She downs the last of the wine drops the glass and launches herself at me, fists flailing in all directions. “Take that back,” she shouts.
“What if I don’t?” I parry her feeble assault and then grab her wrists with ease, my eyes challenging hers.
“Take that back, or once I consume enough of Lord Klug’s seed, I will beat you into a bloody mess until dead and become First Wife and none will blame me because you aren’t special, erm no spirit thing.” I release her due to shock. She takes an unsteady step back, the wobbles returning while breathing deep and long.
Lord Klug? Seed? Aspirations to be First Wife. Because of Lord Klug’s seed, she can beat me to death? What does the spirit thing mean? Does she worship Lord Klug as a god, and during a Klugite ritual, she can gain his seed somehow? Is Lord Klug someone real, and she is therefore disloyal to Lord Klar? No, I thought Lord Farmer Klug was the one who still lives. None of this makes sense. My hands cover and then wipe down my face.
She falls while trying to sit, ending up in a tangle of arms and legs. With deliberate, careful effort, one limb at a time, she draws herself into a proper and dignified sitting position. She glances at me and then bursts into a shower of tears.
“Bathe and get dressed. Hurry, we have work to do, sister-wife,” I growl. Her blood! In her veins flows the blood of Lord Klug’s son, blah blah. Well, she is nothing, I tell myself. Nothing. I have absorbed much of Lord Klug’s seed and have manipulated and enhanced my body and senses. More recently, I have purified my blood to an honourable lineage. I am more than her equal, more I say.
Yet, the outside world reality is different, the goblin wise woman and her verdict on my blood named me insignificant, which cut deep. As a concubine of Lord Klar, I rose, and then the blood verdict of a tribal goblin brought me low. Lord Klar’s advice, to refine my blood, was a lifeline, yet I wouldn’t be able to allow the wise woman to read my blood again because of the impossibility. None can change their blood. An entire goblin tribe, one which whom we will share the land, will know I have no worthwhile linage.
I wonder what the wise woman will make of her blood, though. Lord Klug’s sons would surely be like a taboo or a holy enemy, or some such. Perhaps a bleeding wound when near the wise woman would provide an answer to that question. But why would Lord Klar marry her? Maybe the keep your enemies close theory.
“I am ready, sister-wife,” she says. The meekness in her voice is unbelievable, but what can I say?
“I am certain you can lead us both to the middle floor bedrooms, western section.”
“Yes, sister-wife.”
Off she toddles, all meek and apologetic, and I follow close behind, trying not to vomit.
The open door is an invitation, and without hesitation, she enters as if she owns the room. So much for knowing her place. I follow and discover, like her, that none we expect to greet are present. I pick up sheets off the floor and throw them on the bed. Kick loose clothes into a corner. Do we wait?
“There you two are. Come on down to the stables. We are finishing preparations, beasts, and luggage,” says Voria of all people.
Before I can ask for an explanation, the former honour guard disappears.
“It seems you don’t command her even though she would be but a servant of Lord Klar,” Klaria snipes.
I hold back the urge to clip her behind the ear and rush out of our former bedroom instead, leaving the shrew to decide for herself.
Holding back the night pre-dawn, hanging torches cast a yellow waving light on the stable area. Six beasts are being saddled before my eyes by the stable hands. Thalgora is amongst them equally helping and ordering them about, with Voria joining her. Lord Klar would need to mount one beast. Thalgora, a given for a second and I assume much to my disgust Klaria would mount a third. Zergoa another. Zoria and Duzsia the last two? This means I will need to double, as will Luda. What about Voria? Does she follow on foot?
“We aren’t ready, Lord. The day will break before we are, so we must make alternative plans,” says Dorgrav, his open hands waving about, eyes full of concern shifting between the stables and Lord Klar.
Luda leans on Lord Klar, the back of her head resting on Lord Klar’s chest. I so wish to be there. His arms wrap around Luda and cross over her chest, while his head shakes in absolute denial. “She will not make the journey inside a box.”
His growl stills the entire courtyard. While all I see is Luda’s hardening nipples rise beneath her linen shirt and her thighs draw together. I so wish to be there.
“None can spot a goblin on the streets of Hobgoblin Town from dawn to dusk. There is no other way,” Dorgrav whines.
“Thalgora!” shouts Lord Klar, while his embrace squeezes and rubs against Luda’s chest. Flaming torchlight flickers over Luda’s face, revealing her glistening lips. Is she drooling?
Thalgora pops her head up from within a stable stall and then rushes to her husband. “Yes, husband?”
This fierce muscular female hobgoblin warrior, taller than many, male or female, who terrifies most who meets her, does Lord Klar’s bidding with the eagerness of an innocent maiden, eyes full of adoration. I fully understand, yet can’t explain why she does. For me and my other sisters, our spirit link is an unbreakable bond of devotion. What binds her so completely to him?
Lord Klar releases Luda and vaults into the saddle of his beast.
“You are in charge.” His words are absolute. Thalgora grows taller somehow and all in the stable area pay attention. I simply shiver with envy. “See, everyone is ready and leaves as soon as possible. Luda and I will wait for you on the road beyond Hobgoblin Town.”
“Are you certain, Lord? To ready, another beast won’t take long…”
He leans down, his fingers worming their way through her hair to pull her closer. An admiring glance into her eyes, and then he steals a passionate kiss from her lips. I touch mine as he replies, “Another beast will mean leaving some goods behind. Even my beast, travelling light will force some reorganisation of the remaining loads.” He grabs Luda’s willing hand and hoists her up to sit before him, while a light green blush spreads across Thalgora’s face.
“As you command, husband.” She waves him on and then, looking at the gate, shouts, “Open the gate!”
While wondering who I will ride with, my eyes stare off into the gloom around the opening gate and, by chance, discern movement. I slip into a nearby shadow and creep towards my quarry. The shadow of Lord Klar’s beast aids my haste. As the guards pull the gates closed, a stone hitting the inside wall draws their attention. Utilising the distraction, my quarry, a stable hand, slips through the open gate. I don’t have time to answer guard questions and in a heartbeat; I slip through the open gate and pursue her.
I crouch and peer around the corner of the gatehouse pillar. The builders set the gate back a way so defenders can drop nasty stuff upon any attackers beating on the gate itself. My quarry sidles along the northern wall, heading west, whereas Lord Klar and Luda headed east. Is that good or bad I wonder?
She turns south once the northern wall of the manor ends. I sprint to reach the same corner and peer around. My quarry chats earnestly to a goblin gang and then one goblin runs off south. The other goblins produce a ladder from somewhere and it doesn’t take a genius to realise their intent. I race back to the gate and tap on the thick hardwood with the pommel of my dagger.
“Who goes there?”
“Izga, a concubine of Lord Klar, open is his name, please.” I hope begging politeness will encourage questionless haste instead of ranting and raving at the persons who, at their whim, will or won’t decide to open the gate.
The gate cracks open and one of the guard’s faces peers out. She smiles as I am certain she recognises me and as soon as the gate opens wide enough; I am through and racing into the manor heading for the western side, the second floor. I pass several closed doors before reaching the open door to our room at the end of the long corridor. Am I too late? Has he climbed the ladder already and is therefore gone, or did the ladder reach to the third floor? I doubt myself when low chatter alerts me to others in the room next to ours. Are the walls that thin? What about our intimate moments with Lord Klar? I shake my head. Not important now. Do I burst in? No, I need information, not a fight, therefore capturing the stable hand is my priority. I race down the corridor, to ensure I settle behind the handrail post at the top of the circular stairs well before the stable hand exits his room. My gaze fixes on a single closed door, and all I can do is lay in wait.
Having second thoughts, I spring from my hide and put out the nearby corridor candle. I then slink back against the handrail post into a deeper gloom.
After the hurry, there is a wait. What is keeping her?
If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have believed it. The former stable hand who steps out of the room next to ours now wears the livery and armour of a manor guard. I shake my head and then my eyes open wide. She strolls down the corridor, checking the closed doors. My body coils up, ready to spring. I study her routine; check door handle, nod, move to the next, repeat. While standing in front of the door closest to the stairs, I pounce, my dagger’s edge caressing her throat.
“Who do you report to?”
“Help!” she yells.
She is calling for help. How does that work? I have caught her in an act of betrayal, haven’t I?
I hear them before I see them. Two of Lord Torngul’s honour guards are the first to respond. Their splendid black embossed and hardened leather armour shines under the flickering candlelight within the manor until they close on me and my captive. One of the honour guards glances at the dead corridor candle above us.
“Get this mad person off me. I was checking the doors, and she put a dagger to my throat!”
The honour guards recognise me, yet not in a good way. I remember smacking one in the face and dragging the other with an abundance of roughness off Luda.
“She was a stable hand,” I protest. They exchange doubtful looks. “She reported to a goblin gang along the west wall and then they used a ladder so she could climb back into the manor and then I guess she changed clothes and armour.” My words tumble from my lips, why I am trying to defend the truth when she is the guilty one?
“Where did she do this quick-change act?” asks one, while crossing her arms.
“The second last room.” I flick my head towards the door.
“You just wait here with your prisoner. We will search the room and return.” They exchange smirks. They think the situation is a joke of some sort and I have somehow gone mad…
My prisoner waits without resistance and doesn’t even raise a sweat. She must know her stable hand clothes aren’t there. Perhaps that was the reason for the chatter, deciding on risk, leave them, take them. Discuss what to do the next time if there were no clothes in the room? Perhaps with Lord Klar gone, there won’t be a next time. This means the guard intends to resign in a few days and return to her true master.
“We must ask you to release our manor guard. The room was empty, and we needed to unlock the door before entering.”
I hesitate. What can I say? I glance at the pair of honour guards. They both favour one leg with hands upon the pommel of their respective swords. I withdraw my dagger. My prisoner rushes towards the honour guards while rubbing her neck.
“My shift is almost done. I think I will retire for the night to recover. Can you cover this floor until my relief arrives?”
“Yeah sure,” drawls one of the honour guards.
My prisoner takes her leave, no rush, taking a superior saunter down the circular stairs. My eyes follow her until she disappears from view. I bend over from a blind punch to my stomach. I control tumble down a couple of steps to escape their easy reach while remaining in a ball of agony, trying to draw in a breath.
“That’s for earlier.” I feel her foot on my hip and then a sharp push. “That’s for the inconvenience now.”
I tumble down the wide stairs, and with my head tucked in, I should only suffer a few bruises if they don’t follow to continue the punishment. I stay as I am until I hear them exchange trash talk and snicker at their jokes.
As I climb to my feet, I feel a tap on my shoulder. My head cranes around, and I exhale in relief. Thalgora.
“We have been searching for you.”
I tell her about my encounter with the stable hand spy who turned into a manor guard who I assume has now escaped.
“And father’s honour guard didn’t believe you?”
“It doesn’t matter now. I would like to know who the spy reported to.”
“You can stop wondering. Given she reported to night goblins, I am certain Clan Head Sakvorpa of the Eater Clan is her master.”
“When do we leave?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “We should be able to leave now, but one of the loaded beasts became lame. The boar needed to be unloaded and then another made ready. Also, the stable hands, most were helpful, a couple worse than useless, which is why I jumped in to help and direct.”
Of course, Clan Head Sakvorpa. How could I overlook her hand in all of this? I curse under my breath. “These inconveniences smell of deliberate delay. The spy to report when Lord Klar left the manor alone with Luda, an essential part of her plans.”
“I am needed to hurry this along. How do you feel about following our husband? I will make up some excuse for your absence in case other spies wait to report on us.”
“Can I borrow your water skin? Otherwise, I am ready.”
Thalgora hands me her waterskin and our hands touch. “Be careful. I am certain Lord Klar would grieve over your death.”
Returning to our room, I borrow three sheets and knot them together as I make my way to the eastern side of the manor. I hear the two honour guards, and before they see me, I wait in the shadows for them to pass by. Afterwards, I find a convenient window, tie off the sheet rope and shimmy down the wall. Picking up a rock, I toss it through the open window. Nothing. After several more rocks, the honour guards peer out of the window. They find the bedsheets and haul them back into the manor. I wait until they once again scan the surroundings and then sneak off, keeping to the shadows of the surrounding town buildings. Heading east means as the sun rises, dawn's shade will provide ample cover, yet I believe the town will be well behind me by then.
Astride our boars, we amble out of Hobgoblin Town utilising the eastern packed dirt road, needing to shade our eyes against the post-dawn rising sun. Klaria, as the second wife, insists she rides beside me, while Duzsia and Zergoa ride as the next pair, and Zoria and Voria ride as the last pair. Voria was fortunate that the lame boar had made a miraculous recovery as we were preparing to leave, otherwise, she would have been walking.
Looking under my shading hand, I see, yet I don’t believe it. I raise my arm to signal a halt while observing four nondescript goblin slaves hauling a hobgoblin upon their shoulders. Their threadbare clothes and skinny bodies are typical of goblin slaves in this valley, recognisable at almost any distance. Those riders on beasts following mine flank me on either side and as one we rest our hands upon our saddle pommels and observe. At some point, one or more of the goblins look up and at different times, they drop their portion of the body to run, resulting in an awkward, comical collapse. I chuckle at them, at least. They do have a plan though, scattering in four different directions, disappearing into the long grass on either side of the road.
Their daylight presence was a surprise. Yet by the laws of the valley, we were no longer in Hobgoblin Town.
As one, we nudge our boars forward until the face-down female hobgoblin is beneath our gaze. Duzsia and Zoria throw the reins of their boars to Zergoa and Voria and slide from their mounts.
Duzsia and Zoria roll the body over and take a step back. The left eye socket is a mess. Zoria peers forward.
“Arrow to the eye,” she reports, the obvious. “Either the goblins have taken the arrow as a trophy, which I doubt, or more likely, the archer has recovered the arrow for re-use. Something an archer would do when facing many foes and still fighting or after winning the melee.”
Duzsia sinks to her haunches. “This seems like something Lord Klar would do, the accuracy of the archery alone. The corpse in tight-fitting black, soft leather suggests an assassin though. They would not want to challenge anyone in an open one-on-one melee and yet from the wound, they faced their slayer.”
“Mount up, we will hurry on,” I growl.
Is Lord Klar in danger and this is his first fallen foe? So much time has passed, and I asked Izga to scout after him. Have I sent her into the same trap they set for Lord Klar? Duzsia and Zoria are so matter of fact about this corpse, I don’t understand their complacency.
The second group of four goblins spot us before we see them. The advantage of the sun behind them, I assume. They are haring off into the long grass by the time we notice them. We didn’t even see them drop anything and as we ride forward under a rising sun, there will be no need to dismount. The female assassin lay on her back. Again an empty black and bloody eye socket stare back at us.
“We must hurry.” I urge my beast forward. After several heartbeats, I sense I am alone. I glance over my shoulder and discover my sisters are where I left them, including Voria, the ungrateful bitch. Last time I risk the wrath of my father on her behalf, she can walk next time. Wheeling around, I ride back and rein in before them.
“Didn’t you hear your First Wife? Plus, Lord Klar left me in command in his stead, and I say we must make haste.”
What is wrong with them? Don’t they believe Lord Klar is in danger?
“I doubt anyone can slay Lord Klar,” says one of them in a pompous voice.
I look about for the source of the voice. Klaria? What would our newest sister know, which I don’t? I witness the colour drain from the faces of my other sisters. They have a similar misgiving or do they since they disobeyed me as well? A frown on her forehead. Voria seems as lost as me.
“What Klaria is saying is that Lord Klar is an accomplished archer. The assassins aren’t sneaking up on him, which suggests he is in a strong defensive position,” says Duzsia.
“Also,” adds Zergoa. “Luda accompanied him, and she is the sneakiest of goblins.”
“I am also certain our goblin sister has had her fill of Lord Klar’s seed,” snipes Klaria. For a reason, that is pure mystery, trying to make a point I don’t comprehend. I know Lord Klar’s seed is invigorating, having received my fill frequently, but how does that make a significant difference to Luda? Klaria’s statement, though, seems to suggest an implied meaning of some importance to those who already know something, given the lack of further explanation.
I feel several pats on my shoulder and swivel to face my comforter.
“As our newest sister, Klaria seems slighted as we all know Lord Klar is proficient in love making and receiving his seed is an honour and a pleasure,” says Zoria with heavy emotion in her voice.
“That is…”
Zergoa slaps the rump of Klaria’s boar before she can finish. Duzsia, Zoria and Zergoa burst into riotous laughter, while Voria chuckles. Klaria shows off her riding skill and is quick to regain command of her boar, while Zergoa digs in her heels and rides out to meet her. Duzsia and Zoria nudge their beasts forward, which means I must turn my body in my saddle to witness the confrontation.
Duzsia and Zoria’s laughter drowns out whatever chance I have of eavesdropping on Klaria and Zergoa’s shouting match. I nudge my boar forward and turnabout. As I approach Klaria and Zergoa, their faces glowing green, they run out of words.
“We must hurry to Lord Klar, yet first we must break our fast First Wife,” says Duzsia.
Zoria continues, “The sun continues to rise and if we continue, depending on when we will be blind to any ambushers waiting for us. Stopping to eat and prepare will allow the sun to rise some more and ensure we ride to the rescue and not ride into whatever situation has or hasn’t befallen our Lord.”
Somehow, I feel handled. Lord Torngul, Klugak and, to a lesser extent, Dorgrav would try the same tactics to soften my rough edges or curb my rasher solutions, which in the main involve the spilling of blood first and last. I remember their machinations trying to restrain my efforts to hunt all the goblins who murdered my mother. And their goblin relatives, of course. After all, the dead can’t bother you and their deaths can gift you a worthwhile bonus. The deaths can make other family members braver than they are, thinking some misguided notion of honourable revenge will protect them. Instead, they present themselves to you. This saves a great deal of time as you don’t need to waste any effort to identify and find them. This eases any frustration you may suffer while wasting time searching for the cowards.
Perhaps I should remain agreeable, allow my sisters to believe they have handled me. That way, it should be easier to find some alone time with Klaria. The fresh, and I believe insecure and beyond a doubt proud, new second wife may talk and, if I belittle her ego with choice word games, reveal more than she should.
---
After breaking my fast on cheese and an apple, I sip on a morning wine, deep red, fruity and sweet. A rare wine, an indulgence to be certain, which I carry with me because of a simple circumstance. The Manor is no longer my home. I sigh with over-the-top delight. This, I decide, is my bait. Voria I remember has partaken in wine drinking, while Klaria, never. Klugak forbid the entire family if I remember correctly. Most children want to do what their father has forbidden them. I hope Klaria is the same.
“Are you going to share?” asks Klaria.
I raise an eyebrow in her direction. “Didn’t your family pack and gift you with all manner of goods and chattels?”
“Yes.” Her eyes lower as she whispers, “My father didn’t permit wine. We all suspected his opposition because of the expense rather than any other reason.”
I thought, like Klaria, her whisper low enough, yet Duzsia, Zoria and Zergoa all burst into laughter. Only Voria presents a quizzical face. Klaria’s face turns bright green and rising to her feet, she flees from our sight. I shake my head and chuckle. This, I know for certain, is my chance. None before presented an opportunity, like when we staked out the boars or unpacked our stores to break our fast, as one of the three would make it their business to help or be nearby, to offer advice, even if obvious. For an unknown reason, I failed to convince them they had handled me. Their protective behaviour, though, more than anything else, convinced me there is a secret to uncover. Voria, though, seems as clueless as I, and for that reason alone, I am glad she travels with us. She will represent the ordinary, a mere servant of Lord Klar and I presume unaware of his or his wives’ secrets. Her reactions will provide me with a guide to measure against. The first being she didn’t hear Klaria’s whisper as I expected, while the three did, somehow.
With well-practised skill, I pour a glass of wine for each of my sisters and Voria. Except for Voria who knows and sips, they down their second glass as I leave them another bottle, feigning the need to relieve myself. I make to leave and then return several heartbeats later for my glass with a chuckle, raising my glass in salute.
Walking away from camp, I am deliberate in my choice of direction. The same side of the road as Klaria yet further along. Klaria, I suspect, will find me, as she wouldn’t have run far, and I have a sneaky suspicion she watches our camp even now wondering who will care enough to find and console her. For bait, my hand holding the half-full wine glass sweeps about, forward and back while the neck of a second bottle protrudes from my carry bag. To her, wine is the forbidden fruit, the cause of their laughter at her expense. If I have misjudged her, at the very least, I will use the time away to drain the glass and my bladder.
Not too far from the road, I stomp a circle in the long grass, then drop my pants and squat down on my haunches. I take a sip and wait.
“Can I hold your glass?” Her quiet, begging words are music to my ears.
“Certainly. Please take a couple of sips. As Second Wife to Lord Klar, you are no longer under your father’s thumb.”
“Yes,” she says.
As I hand off the glass, she radiates a wondrous smile. Her fingers are firm and secure around the glass as if she holds a life-changing treasure and, perhaps to her, she does.
Two quick sips and then she nurses the glass close to her chest. I think her body even sways. Delight? Joy? She can’t be drunk yet, could she? Surely not.
“Finish. There is another bottle.” Reaching into the carry bag resting beside me, I retrieve the bottle, pull the bung out, and set the bottle on the ground. Her shoes shift closer.
“We must allow the wine to breathe first. Our patience, I am certain, will be its own reward.”
She grunts and then empties my glass of wine down her throat.
I pull up my pants, pick up the bottle, and climb to my feet. My eyes meet hers. She offers the glass and I pour her a mouthful. Her face sours and it takes all the control I have not to laugh. “Drink, but don’t swallow. Swish the wine in your mouth.” As she does, I continue, “If the wine is good, swallow. If not, spit it out.”
She guzzles and straight arms the empty glass towards the bottle. I fill the glass. In knowledgable company I would, of course, half fill the glass, but I sense her urgent desire for more.
“Your father would, I assume, be yelling at you now, would he not?”
She wiggles a finger. “He, erm.” Hic. “He. I would tell him a truth to his face.” After a firm nod, she takes another sip.
“Perhaps you should try your words with me first, so you can be certain of your message?”
She raises a finger and blinks. “Father! You are not my father, never was, never will be. Which means I could’ve had wine whenever I wanted to.”
I reply in a deep voice. “Of course, I am your father.”
She smiles and nods. “Good.” Hic. “We can pretend.” One hand secures the glass of wine, while the other shifts her breast wrap, a casual adjustment as she corrects her posture. “My loyal friend had my blood read.” She closes her eyes and remains silent.
I need to nudge her along; it seems. “That is a snivelling goblin practice. No daughter of mine would taint her family's honour so.”
“Foolish petty male,” she gasps. “I am a descendant of Klugrath’s line.” Bending over slightly, she waggles her finger before her face, forgetting I am certain I tower over her, her waggling finger lines up with my breasts instead of my face. “The son of Lord Farmer Klug himself, who walks amongst us!” Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, while her eyes perform a slow shift left and then a slow shift right.
Does Klugrath or Lord Farmer Klug walk amongst us? Lord Farmer Klug, is that the same hobgoblin as Lord Farmer Hob, the master of farming, the father of civilisation? The Klugites worship a god, a Lord Klug from which they take their name. Are these three names for one hobgoblin or three different hobgoblins? Well, Lord Farmer Hob and Lord Klug can’t walk amongst us if the legends are true, so perhaps this other hobgoblin, Lord Farmer Klug, lives amongst us?
“Boarcrap,” I snarl, casting off any pretence.
She straightens, rocks back somewhat and then wobbles before regaining her balance. “You doubt.” Hic. “Me?”
“Of course, you second-rate hobgoblin bitch trying to marry up from a desperate family of no name,” I curse her with venom in my voice.
She downs the last of the wine drops the glass and launches herself at me, fists flailing in all directions. “Take that back,” she shouts.
“What if I don’t?” I parry her feeble assault and then grab her wrists with ease, my eyes challenging hers.
“Take that back, or once I consume enough of Lord Klug’s seed, I will beat you into a bloody mess until dead and become First Wife and none will blame me because you aren’t special, erm no spirit thing.” I release her due to shock. She takes an unsteady step back, the wobbles returning while breathing deep and long.
Lord Klug? Seed? Aspirations to be First Wife. Because of Lord Klug’s seed, she can beat me to death? What does the spirit thing mean? Does she worship Lord Klug as a god, and during a Klugite ritual, she can gain his seed somehow? Is Lord Klug someone real, and she is therefore disloyal to Lord Klar? No, I thought Lord Farmer Klug was the one who still lives. None of this makes sense. My hands cover and then wipe down my face.
She falls while trying to sit, ending up in a tangle of arms and legs. With deliberate, careful effort, one limb at a time, she draws herself into a proper and dignified sitting position. She glances at me and then bursts into a shower of tears.
