I eye her split lip and the fresh bruising on her face. My honour guard warned me she fought hard. “You are before me. Therefore, have your say.”
A follower of Lord Klar, an apprentice of Duzsia the Relentless, these are the things she boasts. Yet, for all that, she carried no weapons, wore no armour, and covers her modesty in rags. She opens her mouth, and tears run down her cheeks, wetting the dust.
“Lord Torngul, Duzsia, my mistress is dead.”
I scoff, push myself out of my throne, and advance upon her. She skids her dirty body back. “She turned into a pillar of dust, Lord. I swear it. If Luda were with me now, she would also swear it.”
The fireplace flickers and my shadow looms over this pitiful creature. Luda. My daughter’s name gives me pause. She hasn’t mentioned my daughter to any of my guards or honour guard, so why now?
“Why haven’t you mentioned Lord Klar’s goblin until now?” I growl.
She raises her head, yet her eyes look everywhere, avoiding my gaze. “Goblins aren’t welcome in Hobgoblin Town. Luda spoke little about this place, and my Mistress, Duzsia, forbade me to ask.” Her eyes find mine, and her spine straightens ever so slightly. “I am told you, and only you, had a soft spot for goblins, or at least for Luda. She will confirm what I say. What I have said is nothing but the truth.”
I eye my honour guards and flick a hand in Vorlora’s direction. “See that she is washed, clothed and fed.”
As my guards grab each arm and haul her to her feet, I hold her chin. “After you have enjoyed my hospitality, we will place a sword and shield in your hand. You can then show us the teachings of Duzsia.”
She remains quiet as they drag her away.
“Do you believe her husband?”
“Turn to dust? It is a perfect ruse for death. There is no dead body and death scene for a start. Duzsia the Relentless, dead?” I shake my head and scoff.
Her arms surround my waist from behind. “She was by far the deadliest warrior of Lord Klar’s wives. Therefore, her death in battle is difficult to accept.”
“Yes, my thoughts exactly and the brazen mention of Luda as a witness. If an untruth, the apprentice would know she would only live until Luda could confirm or deny her story.”
I feel her head rest between my shoulder blades. “What of this mercenary goblin army?”
“All the clans are here with their warriors. Perhaps an expedition across the Grassplains wouldn’t go amiss. See if we can determine their intentions for ourselves.”
“You don’t believe her? That they were simply to weaken their leadership. To humble them and force the Oath Keepers to negotiate with Lord Klar for the release of their females?”
“I do, but I want to see if they are still a threat.” I know, of course, Lord Klar seeded the Oath Keeper Goblins. We discussed the need for their timely eviction from the valley before they showed off his seeding handiwork, and this could be that opportunity.
---
The clan heads were particularly helpful, not from any genuine affection or interest. They were still busy negotiating between themselves. Still feasting over Clan Head Sakvorpa’s carcass. In any event, between ten and fifteen hobgoblin warriors from each clan escorted me and my honour guard. Procession-like, beast-mounted, we ambled out of hobgoblin town, two abreast. Dark clouds gathered above us, threatening rain or, perhaps, ill portents.
Earlier, I watched my honour guard spar with Vorlora, Duzsia’s apprentice. Competitive, yet still green. Her martial forms were strengthening, although she hadn’t reached their creative application. Therefore, she became predictable. I ordered her to stay and accept my hospitality. Any attempt to leave, I cautioned her, and my honour guard would find and punish her.
Before us, the width and expanse of the Grassplains became more real as the day raced from morning to afternoon. Before our advance, I had sent out at least nine beast-mounted hobgoblins as scouts. They return to us at dusk for a warm meal before a blazing fire. The following day was a repeat, although overnight, a sprinkle of unwelcome rain spoiled our pleasant outing.
In the middle of the day, a single scout returned to us. She reported goblins riding wargs with a ragtag collection of camp followers. Spreading out the official map of the valley, the scout pointed at a lone well, lying northeast of our current position. Years past, this was once a village, but even with water, growing crops on the Grassplains was, and will always be a challenge. This explained why all the present growing fields weren’t far from a river. She then mounted her beast and rode out once again. This time, to contact the other scouts to inform them of our rally point.
We encamp mid-afternoon. As the scouts returned, I offered them a meal. I sent them out again but commanded them to stay within sight of our position to warn of any outflanking attempts.
On the Grassplains, you needed to carry firewood to fuel a campfire. Each clan sat around their campfire, picketed their beasts together, and shared one tent. Only I allowed my campfire to grow so certain others could see the flames from afar into the night. There was a risk. The goblins could ambush us overnight or avoid us altogether. Hopefully, they will accept my invitation instead.
---
Fresh bread, sizzling bacon and eggs broke my fast. With impeccable timing, post-feast, my scouts report. They inform me that three warg-mounted goblin riders glide through the tall grasses towards our camp. I ready my forces to receive them.
They don’t dismount as they and their mounts eye me from a comfortable distance. Two of my honour guards flank me to match the three visiting us.
“Who do I have the honour of addressing?” I ask. “I am Lord Torngul Heartsplitter, Lord of the Grassplains.”
“Well met, and I thank you for the invitation. I am Zorottor Black Tooth of the Oath Keeper tribe.”
“If you dismount, we can discuss your presence on the Grassplains over food and ale.”
He shifts in his saddle, glances left then right, swings a leg over and dismounts his warg. I immediately note his height and size: large for a goblin, small for a hobgoblin. The polish of his armour and weapons reflects the morning sunlight. The metal is without blemish, and the leather stitching is unbroken and without fraying ends. I judge his gear well-crafted and plainly superior to his two companions. Yet the armour on all three displays no troop insignia.
He approaches, each of his steps a cautious measure. His eyes scan our camp, seeking signs of ambush, I suspect. Taking one pace forward, I offer my right hand. He understands immediately and shakes my hand in return, although he doesn’t make the mistake of trying to crush my hand. He is a goblin, and I am a hobgoblin, and any test of strength has a known outcome.
On cue, one of my camp followers offers them bread and ale, which they take. They nibble and sip. Zorottor shifts from one foot to the other, his eyes ever scanning.
“State your business?” I ask.
“Lord, we are humble emissaries representing the six Oath Keeper troops. We request passage across the Grassplains to fetch our mothers, sisters, and daughters to escort them out of this valley to fulfil their destiny.”
From Vorlora’s tale, if true, these six oath-keeper troops he speaks of are barely one, possibly less. I imagine they will be quick and discreet. There is undoubtedly no bluff or bluster, yet this troop leader, at least, displays calm confidence. Fortunately for him, I want them gone as quickly as they wish to leave, so I reward his directness.
“You have my permission.” I wave over one of my camp followers, a scribe. She carries parchment and ink and has already filled in his name. I take the parchment from her, turn her around and use her back to sign my name, making the document official. Straightening, she then offers me the press. I line up the jaws of the press and, with all my strength, squeeze. I return the press to her as my official mark is now set in the parchment. Waving the document dry, I then hand it to him.
As he takes it from my hand, I say, “Show this document to any who would question you, and they should leave you in peace. You have seven days. I will send heralds across the valley to withdraw this consent on the eighth day.”
He bows his head and thanks me. As we agreeably part ways, several screams pierce the nervous quiet of our meeting. The six of us scan the immediate surroundings, hands on the hilts of our weapons. The mewling howl of the wargs toward Clan Hungry and Clan Quickeyed camps give us our first clue. As I take several rushing steps towards the camps, I halt before a scene of carnage.
A female warrior hobgoblin, on looking up, staggers towards me, holding her belly. Her leather britches are behind her, the white loin cloth now black with her blood and bulging! She drops to her knees and, with urgency, unbinds her loin cloth. A ball of black blood and immature hobgoblin-shaped flesh tumble from her loins onto the ground.
Lord Klar’s spawn, I am sure. A failure or some sort of sabotage? The result is the same as the twelve warriors from Clan Hungry, and four from Clan Quickeyed share the same fate. Depending on their strength, they either carry their dead male babes to me, asking why, or I find them inconsolable in or near their clan tent. Stupid me. I thought they were slightly fat, but now I realise they carried their pregnancy on this mission. Not so anymore.
I spare a glance for my guests. The event transfixes Zorottor and his two escorts. Their visit at this time to see this tragedy was an unfortunate coincidence. What they have seen can’t be unseen. They will spread this news far, I suspect. Will the news be about the infant deaths or that every infant was a male? Knowing my misfortune, probably both and none will visit this valley, fearing they or their family will catch this curse or affliction.
For a moment, I consider slaughtering the Oath Keeper goblins. Only briefly. I suspect this scene repeats itself in the Oath Keeper Goblin village, so I cannot give the order.
“Be gone, Zorottor Black Tooth.” Our faces meet. He swallows. “I would counsel you to use haste in this valley in case I decide to change my mind and eliminate witnesses.”
He and his two companions are quickly out of my sight. Shortly after, they mount and gallop off across the Grassplains. Several healers and others assist those with their loss. I find a scout, order her to find the others, and range a helpful distance from our camp as a screen just in case the goblins and their wargs feel lucky.
The river sand shapes to my knees as I kneel in the cool water to scoop up handfuls to wash off the dried, exhausted hobgoblin blood from my body. I feign ignorance as they try their best to sneak up on me. Their stealth is excellent, yet my hearing is superior, of course. Being unarmed and naked, I am confident they don’t believe I am dangerous. This is a brave assumption, yet I am confident my reasoning is sound. After all, even primitives like these must admire my superior physical form, the athletic lines, and the length of my thin tusks. A body crafted to lull one male, in particular, into drooling compliance. His females into worshipping admirers, wishing by association they could also bask in my glory.
His heavy breathing is satisfying, proving my prediction and more. I thought myself constructed so that only one would find me perfect. Yet, delightfully, another is, therefore, I might attract multiple partners. This is a giddy feeling; I admit to myself. Being desired, being desirable. This body exudes pheromones. Although my reproduction organs are deep in icy river water, they excrete warm, lubricating secretions. It is exciting and completely opposite to my previous and mainly sterile existence on the Observer Ship. I will enjoy this body and certainly relish the companionship of Galactic Planet Agent 01-007A of the Galactic Planet Agency, otherwise known in this life as Lord Klar. I can’t suppress a giggle!
From behind me, a person with a deep and severe voice says, “I am uncertain what is so funny, given your present situation.”
I stand, slowly about-face, arms parting, hands open and empty. His jaw drops. That is such a rewarding compliment. His spear tip droops as his eyes try to examine every part of me and all of me at once. I sense. Two females flank him.
“Gorgrin, what are your orders?” asks the one on the left.
The one on the right, though, doesn’t wait for any orders and casts her massive brown bearskin cloak about my naked shoulders. The lingering body warmth in the cloak is a pleasant sensation. She quickly ties off the leather throng about my neck, avoiding eye contact. Next, she secures the fastenings down the front, drawing the cloak closed. I know her eyes examine my smooth skin and undercurrent of muscles as occasionally her hands caress my body as her actions hide what I sense she is envious of.
My eyes are on him. As my flesh disappears from his view, he blinks, takes a deep breath, and finally, an awareness returns to his eyes. He issues an order. I lick my lips, ensuring my long, slim tongue coats my tusks in saliva, bestowing a lustful sheen on them.
A pleasant, giddy feeling stirs in my stomach, which descends and stirs up my loins shortly after. His helpless staring, proof of my power over this male hobgoblin, is a heady new feeling. I need the same domination over Lord Klar for my mission to succeed, but this sign is encouraging. Four of his Hobgoblin huntresses surround me while another four escort him ahead of us. They ensure he doesn’t look back. They are jealous of me, of course. Several other huntresses follow. They labour in pairs or fours, hoisting the slain beasts of their hunt by tied appendages from sturdy poles.
A crowd gathers as we approach rough huts, rough-hewn village walls with flimsy wooden gates. The setting sun radiates and highlights my high cheekbones, prominent eyes and whiter-than-white, long, slim tusks. I bask in their attention, so they should admire me, for my form and beautiful face are perfect.
I see the incoming strike but can’t react in time as the spear butt from one of my escorts jabs into my stomach. The flicker of pain bends me over. In the next instant, my nanorobots repair the slight damage, and I fully recover.
“They aren’t interested in you, you gloating bitch. We carry sufficient for tonight’s feast and perhaps, if we are lucky, enough left over to store away for the snow season,” growls an escort.
With disappointment growing in my heart, I survey the crowd. I inwardly acknowledge the truth in her words, although some exceptions exist. Some hobgoblin females look long and hard, some smile, and some don’t. We pass through the open gates, and the thin crowd presses closer. Their eyes are on me as much as they are on the kills, but these are questioning eyes. I am a stranger to them. A stranger. I read the mistrust in their eyes. As I parade before them, I realise my mistake. This method of introduction to Lord Klar has been a mistake. I am an escorted prisoner. Perhaps they even see me as part of their successful hunt.
I note that one Huntress breaks away from escorting Gorgrin. Jogging ahead? A messenger? While behind, those huntresses hauling the kills also take a different path. I assume to slaughter and dress the slain beasts. We pass through another gate. Light, infrequent raindrops splatter on us, yet no one pays attention as we trudge onwards up the hillock. How can Lord Klar call this dreary place home? Be in any way satisfied, wallowing in this mud?
The three Huntresses escorting Gorgrin leave him as we step into shelter under a curious building. Unfinished wood, what a surprise, with a round upper level while the lower level is a smaller circle with the upper-level floor acting as a roof. The rain tumbles down now, and I wonder how the hunters are butchering the beasts in this weather.
No one asks me questions, no one talks to me. We wait. The four escorts don’t chat between themselves, and at some point, Gorgrin has also snuck away. My welcome is underwhelming, and a feeling of dread builds within me. Somehow, I thought Lord Klar would recognise and greet me with open arms.
Two of my escorts leave to be replaced by two others as night closes in and the rain eases. These two then hand off great cloaks to the two escorts, who stayed. My nanorobots absorb the shower and use the water to generate warmth, so I am comfortable enough even though my feet stand in wet, cold mud. My escorts seem impervious to the cold and rain as well. The rain beads and rolls off their greatcoats of soft leather and attached hoods. I can only imagine what they wear underneath because when I had the chance to take note, the information didn’t seem necessary.
My eyes extract every glimmer of light cast by the stars as the clouds part. Both escorts who stayed are shivering despite their great cloaks. They are still wet and need a fire, I suspect. I edge closer until one of them stares at me and instinctively takes half a step away. Reaching out with my nanorobots to heighten my senses, I try something easy. I task my nanorobots to hone my senses to detect nanorobots in the nearest shivering escort.
She has so few in her body that they must have migrated accidentally, not with intent.
My hand shoots out, grabbing her tusks. As she draws back, I ensure she slices my thumb on her teeth.
“Bitch!” she yelps.
“What?” asks another as she and the new escorts press forward towards me.
“She stuck her finger in my mouth,” says my target.
Raising my open palms, I reply, “She looked cold. I thought I would help. That’s all.”
My target shoulders her way through the other three. “What do you mean, help?”
They are my nanorobots. Initially potent and with a singular purpose, but now, they are more since imbuing them with two vats of this planet’s nanorobots. They are of Lord Klar, nurtured by this planet over generations, like, what humans would say, a fine wine. Yet I know his seed will be even more potent. For now, a test. I reach out to my nanorobots swimming in her bloodstream. Nothing.
Time to be bold. My hand reaches behind her neck and draws her closer. “Help,” I hiss. She struggles to free herself, and I instantly oblige. Three spear butts shove me back. In the moments of touch between us, I contact my nanorobots inside her.
“What did you do?” she asks.
I huff. “Magic.”
They all retreat two or three steps. The three check the one. A hand on her forehead, another asking if she feels different, and the last eyeing me.
“I feel warm,” she stammers.
What I did wasn’t magic, of course. Instead, science. Yet, lacking any words to explain the how the understanding will always be a mystery. To these four natives, the only acceptable explanation would be magic.
Three shapes stride towards us through the dark. One goblin small, a hobgoblin large and a hobgoblin male large. I know my escort is unaware of their approach. Still, I prepare to receive Lord Klar by loosening some leather throngs, so I can quickly throw off this crude cloak and reveal myself to him in all my glory.
He veers left at the last moment and barks an order at my escort. They bend one knee but don’t drop into the mud, and then the two fresh guards grab my arms, and we are back into the rain. We pass back through the two gates! This is madness.
At some point, the madness ends. Lord Klar and his two companions enter a building of dressed timber via a solid, crafted door inscribed with ornate carvings. I note everything now and the sign at the entrance, “The Lord’s Tankard”. One escort enters first, me next, and then the last one. No ceremony, no announcement. We all simply enter with muddy boots and dripping cloaks.
My feet land in cold water, and a goblin uses a brush to clean them. With a wet whack of the brush on my leg, I step out. A female hobgoblin unties the last leather throng and swings the cloak away. A moment passes, and it hangs from a hook on the wall. I note that under all the cloaks is another trough to collect the water runoff. After a heartbeat, all chatter falls into silence.
“I now see what all the fuss is about.” He leans forward, resting his arms and elbows on the table. A sly grin decorates his face. The female goblin standing beside him stabs the same table with a dagger. The sizeable female hobgoblin standing on his left folds her arms.
“Wild Ones, find some food if you are hungry, some warmth if you are not. I will be safe with this one.” He flicks his hand towards me.
“Yes, Lord,” they answer and bend a knee before grabbing their cloaks and leaving. I note that their soft leather pants and shirts look comfortable, and perhaps I should have worn similar after washing myself in the river. My nakedness illustrates that my perfect body is unique, and my exceptional beauty screams at everyone that I don’t belong. Combined, they convey superiority and extreme arrogance. The two on either side of Lord Klar have taken an instant dislike towards me, and I note they both rest a hand on the back of his neck. Protective and supportive, perhaps a more profound emotional pairing as well. This isn’t how I wanted to bond with Lord Klar’s lives and those he has spirit bonded with. Strong would have been acceptable but with an appearance of humility. I see now that naked, bold, and superior have been unhelpful.
I drop to one knee. “Lord Klar, I wish to enter your service. I will be whatever you want me to be until I prove my worth.”
His answer surprises me, not precisely because of the words, but the language. Terran Common. The de facto language of his home world, Earth.
“You are the Operator. Are you not from the Observer Ship? For some reason, you have decided to walk amongst us primitive common folk. We who scrape out a living in squalor and mud, lots of mud.”
“Yes, the situation in orbit has changed. When a Scout Ship arrived, many complications arose. Too many for us to discuss now, yet I have a question.” He waves at me to continue while he takes a tankard of liquid from a serving hobgoblin. The server casts a sly glance at me, smiles, and then recedes back into obscurity. Yet I am confident she listens, even though she can’t understand, just in case. “How did you know it was me?”
“You must have read my mind at least once, probably many times. Your body is my idea of the perfect female with subtle adjustments for hobgoblin dressing on the human form. The long, thin tusks were a good guess, especially for native hobgoblins of this planet.” I bow my head slightly. “But you should have arrived, well better. The news of your presence will be across the valley as fast as the messenger can travel. Know that sometimes that is a bird. So, if you wanted to assist my efforts quietly, that spaceship has blasted off. In fact, I don’t know what I can do with you. I assume you can offer much, but you are now a distraction, an amusement to gossip about.” He raises his arms and drops them back to the table in resignation.
I have much to teach him. His spirit bonded wives… How can I rescue myself from this blunder? Disfigurement? I could command the nanorobots to make physical adjustments, but that won’t be quick enough, even for slight changes.
“Reject me, cast me out. Banishment.”
“Yes,” he drawls.
“I will live like a hermit in the mountains, and your wives can find me, and I will teach them what they need to know. In that time, I will also change my appearance and eventually return so I can teach you.”
He smiles at me, but not the happy one. No, this is the dismissive one.
“I have one spirit-bonded wife without hands, so I would doubt her ability to climb, would you?”
“H… How?”
“Something carried on the sunlight, I suspect. Turned our nanorobots against us. I lost two spirit-bonded wives, Duzsia and Klaria. A third, Izga.” He draws in a long, slow breath. “I cut her arms off below the elbow to stop the infection. Luda, the goblin beside me, saved Koria on the other side of me. Fortunately, I and my other wives were underground. I assume a consequence of one complication we don’t have the time to discuss.” He raises his eyebrows.
How can I tell him it was necessary to me, especially my race? Perhaps, another angle…
“Unless you remove the spirit bond, your wives will return to you. The loss is temporary…”
His face sours as I speak, and I sense my choice isn’t the best angle to explain from. His grip on the table causes a creaking sound. Still, fortunately, the sturdy table like this tavern endures Lord Klar’s wrath.
He stands and kicks back his chair. The resultant clatter is loud. “Get!” he shouts, and he points to the door. I blink. “Innkeeper! Find her some clothes!”
He and his two wives storm out of the tavern, ignoring me as I stand alone, my mouth open. I suggested rejection but with secret visits. Was this a show? He spoke hobgoblin when he ordered me to be gone, so all, including the Innkeeper and staff, would understand his words.
His passion, though, is clear. The bond he can form is no longer only a functional benefit to him. His attachment is real, maybe even an enduring love of sorts. Unexpected or perhaps a byproduct or form of “going native”? The magic of this planet is potent, one of a handful of possibilities. My race has always made that observation, but and this is a big but, GPA 01-007A has added a unique temper or catalyst to this equation. Will this be enough to escape his fate?
I stand numb as the Innkeeper takes her time providing me with clothes and dressing me. When my borrowed huge bearskin cloak drapes around my shoulders, I realise it is time to go.
“Will you survive?” she asks as she herds me outside. “Follow the river. In either direction are other settlements. I am certain your beauty will attract protection and shelter.”
The rain is light with no wind. Torches from Lord Klar’s walls light the way, but firelight or starlight makes no difference. My eyes are keen enough to discern a way to leave without embarrassing myself and falling flat on my face. An involuntary shiver shatters my confidence. I have failed my people. I know my death will be final regardless of the number of activated nanorobots within me. My only way to escape this useless end? As a minimum, I needed to spirit bond with Lord Klar, as each return to his side would gift me more time. Further, given the Shifter Scientists’ analysis, they strongly suggest he has a finite number of lives to live. The number the majority settled on was ten. They concluded that his spirit would be too faint to bond with another flesh bag after ten bindings. This was at least his second of any duration, so for my race’s sake, we hope he has eight remaining, and I am by his side for each.
Scattered Shifter Scientists could only work in Human research teams. They confirmed nanorobots could repair flesh and enhance body function. In fact, they assisted Human Scientists to increase their robustness by engineering water as an energy source. This last tweak required sunlight to activate. Otherwise, the nanorobots would hibernate. Under Lord Klar’s influence, the nanorobots evolved to expand their capability to act as a catalyst to tap into this planet’s magic. Given Shifter Scientists couldn’t set up research labs, the only alternative would be a Shifter being reborn. Spirit bonding was the only answer. They theorised that controlled evolution may eventually produce a genetically pure Shifter native. Is it possible to accomplish in hundreds of years what took thousands of years on our home planet? It must be. Our race is in decline, and, absurdly, the humans are to blame, the race that needs our talents but is blind to the dependence.
As I trudge through the night, my single thought is, how can I turn this defeat into gaining the smallest of victories, spirit bonding with Lord Klar?
I am fleetingly aware of the blow to the back of my head as my consciousness descends into a void.
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.
I eye her split lip and the fresh bruising on her face. My honour guard warned me she fought hard. “You are before me. Therefore, have your say.”
A follower of Lord Klar, an apprentice of Duzsia the Relentless, these are the things she boasts. Yet, for all that, she carried no weapons, wore no armour, and covers her modesty in rags. She opens her mouth, and tears run down her cheeks, wetting the dust.
“Lord Torngul, Duzsia, my mistress is dead.”
I scoff, push myself out of my throne, and advance upon her. She skids her dirty body back. “She turned into a pillar of dust, Lord. I swear it. If Luda were with me now, she would also swear it.”
The fireplace flickers and my shadow looms over this pitiful creature. Luda. My daughter’s name gives me pause. She hasn’t mentioned my daughter to any of my guards or honour guard, so why now?
“Why haven’t you mentioned Lord Klar’s goblin until now?” I growl.
She raises her head, yet her eyes look everywhere, avoiding my gaze. “Goblins aren’t welcome in Hobgoblin Town. Luda spoke little about this place, and my Mistress, Duzsia, forbade me to ask.” Her eyes find mine, and her spine straightens ever so slightly. “I am told you, and only you, had a soft spot for goblins, or at least for Luda. She will confirm what I say. What I have said is nothing but the truth.”
I eye my honour guards and flick a hand in Vorlora’s direction. “See that she is washed, clothed and fed.”
As my guards grab each arm and haul her to her feet, I hold her chin. “After you have enjoyed my hospitality, we will place a sword and shield in your hand. You can then show us the teachings of Duzsia.”
She remains quiet as they drag her away.
“Do you believe her husband?”
“Turn to dust? It is a perfect ruse for death. There is no dead body and death scene for a start. Duzsia the Relentless, dead?” I shake my head and scoff.
Her arms surround my waist from behind. “She was by far the deadliest warrior of Lord Klar’s wives. Therefore, her death in battle is difficult to accept.”
“Yes, my thoughts exactly and the brazen mention of Luda as a witness. If an untruth, the apprentice would know she would only live until Luda could confirm or deny her story.”
I feel her head rest between my shoulder blades. “What of this mercenary goblin army?”
“All the clans are here with their warriors. Perhaps an expedition across the Grassplains wouldn’t go amiss. See if we can determine their intentions for ourselves.”
“You don’t believe her? That they were simply to weaken their leadership. To humble them and force the Oath Keepers to negotiate with Lord Klar for the release of their females?”
“I do, but I want to see if they are still a threat.” I know, of course, Lord Klar seeded the Oath Keeper Goblins. We discussed the need for their timely eviction from the valley before they showed off his seeding handiwork, and this could be that opportunity.
---
The clan heads were particularly helpful, not from any genuine affection or interest. They were still busy negotiating between themselves. Still feasting over Clan Head Sakvorpa’s carcass. In any event, between ten and fifteen hobgoblin warriors from each clan escorted me and my honour guard. Procession-like, beast-mounted, we ambled out of hobgoblin town, two abreast. Dark clouds gathered above us, threatening rain or, perhaps, ill portents.
Earlier, I watched my honour guard spar with Vorlora, Duzsia’s apprentice. Competitive, yet still green. Her martial forms were strengthening, although she hadn’t reached their creative application. Therefore, she became predictable. I ordered her to stay and accept my hospitality. Any attempt to leave, I cautioned her, and my honour guard would find and punish her.
Before us, the width and expanse of the Grassplains became more real as the day raced from morning to afternoon. Before our advance, I had sent out at least nine beast-mounted hobgoblins as scouts. They return to us at dusk for a warm meal before a blazing fire. The following day was a repeat, although overnight, a sprinkle of unwelcome rain spoiled our pleasant outing.
In the middle of the day, a single scout returned to us. She reported goblins riding wargs with a ragtag collection of camp followers. Spreading out the official map of the valley, the scout pointed at a lone well, lying northeast of our current position. Years past, this was once a village, but even with water, growing crops on the Grassplains was, and will always be a challenge. This explained why all the present growing fields weren’t far from a river. She then mounted her beast and rode out once again. This time, to contact the other scouts to inform them of our rally point.
We encamp mid-afternoon. As the scouts returned, I offered them a meal. I sent them out again but commanded them to stay within sight of our position to warn of any outflanking attempts.
On the Grassplains, you needed to carry firewood to fuel a campfire. Each clan sat around their campfire, picketed their beasts together, and shared one tent. Only I allowed my campfire to grow so certain others could see the flames from afar into the night. There was a risk. The goblins could ambush us overnight or avoid us altogether. Hopefully, they will accept my invitation instead.
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Fresh bread, sizzling bacon and eggs broke my fast. With impeccable timing, post-feast, my scouts report. They inform me that three warg-mounted goblin riders glide through the tall grasses towards our camp. I ready my forces to receive them.
They don’t dismount as they and their mounts eye me from a comfortable distance. Two of my honour guards flank me to match the three visiting us.
“Who do I have the honour of addressing?” I ask. “I am Lord Torngul Heartsplitter, Lord of the Grassplains.”
“Well met, and I thank you for the invitation. I am Zorottor Black Tooth of the Oath Keeper tribe.”
“If you dismount, we can discuss your presence on the Grassplains over food and ale.”
He shifts in his saddle, glances left then right, swings a leg over and dismounts his warg. I immediately note his height and size: large for a goblin, small for a hobgoblin. The polish of his armour and weapons reflects the morning sunlight. The metal is without blemish, and the leather stitching is unbroken and without fraying ends. I judge his gear well-crafted and plainly superior to his two companions. Yet the armour on all three displays no troop insignia.
He approaches, each of his steps a cautious measure. His eyes scan our camp, seeking signs of ambush, I suspect. Taking one pace forward, I offer my right hand. He understands immediately and shakes my hand in return, although he doesn’t make the mistake of trying to crush my hand. He is a goblin, and I am a hobgoblin, and any test of strength has a known outcome.
On cue, one of my camp followers offers them bread and ale, which they take. They nibble and sip. Zorottor shifts from one foot to the other, his eyes ever scanning.
“State your business?” I ask.
“Lord, we are humble emissaries representing the six Oath Keeper troops. We request passage across the Grassplains to fetch our mothers, sisters, and daughters to escort them out of this valley to fulfil their destiny.”
From Vorlora’s tale, if true, these six oath-keeper troops he speaks of are barely one, possibly less. I imagine they will be quick and discreet. There is undoubtedly no bluff or bluster, yet this troop leader, at least, displays calm confidence. Fortunately for him, I want them gone as quickly as they wish to leave, so I reward his directness.
“You have my permission.” I wave over one of my camp followers, a scribe. She carries parchment and ink and has already filled in his name. I take the parchment from her, turn her around and use her back to sign my name, making the document official. Straightening, she then offers me the press. I line up the jaws of the press and, with all my strength, squeeze. I return the press to her as my official mark is now set in the parchment. Waving the document dry, I then hand it to him.
As he takes it from my hand, I say, “Show this document to any who would question you, and they should leave you in peace. You have seven days. I will send heralds across the valley to withdraw this consent on the eighth day.”
He bows his head and thanks me. As we agreeably part ways, several screams pierce the nervous quiet of our meeting. The six of us scan the immediate surroundings, hands on the hilts of our weapons. The mewling howl of the wargs toward Clan Hungry and Clan Quickeyed camps give us our first clue. As I take several rushing steps towards the camps, I halt before a scene of carnage.
A female warrior hobgoblin, on looking up, staggers towards me, holding her belly. Her leather britches are behind her, the white loin cloth now black with her blood and bulging! She drops to her knees and, with urgency, unbinds her loin cloth. A ball of black blood and immature hobgoblin-shaped flesh tumble from her loins onto the ground.
Lord Klar’s spawn, I am sure. A failure or some sort of sabotage? The result is the same as the twelve warriors from Clan Hungry, and four from Clan Quickeyed share the same fate. Depending on their strength, they either carry their dead male babes to me, asking why, or I find them inconsolable in or near their clan tent. Stupid me. I thought they were slightly fat, but now I realise they carried their pregnancy on this mission. Not so anymore.
I spare a glance for my guests. The event transfixes Zorottor and his two escorts. Their visit at this time to see this tragedy was an unfortunate coincidence. What they have seen can’t be unseen. They will spread this news far, I suspect. Will the news be about the infant deaths or that every infant was a male? Knowing my misfortune, probably both and none will visit this valley, fearing they or their family will catch this curse or affliction.
For a moment, I consider slaughtering the Oath Keeper goblins. Only briefly. I suspect this scene repeats itself in the Oath Keeper Goblin village, so I cannot give the order.
“Be gone, Zorottor Black Tooth.” Our faces meet. He swallows. “I would counsel you to use haste in this valley in case I decide to change my mind and eliminate witnesses.”
He and his two companions are quickly out of my sight. Shortly after, they mount and gallop off across the Grassplains. Several healers and others assist those with their loss. I find a scout, order her to find the others, and range a helpful distance from our camp as a screen just in case the goblins and their wargs feel lucky.
The river sand shapes to my knees as I kneel in the cool water to scoop up handfuls to wash off the dried, exhausted hobgoblin blood from my body. I feign ignorance as they try their best to sneak up on me. Their stealth is excellent, yet my hearing is superior, of course. Being unarmed and naked, I am confident they don’t believe I am dangerous. This is a brave assumption, yet I am confident my reasoning is sound. After all, even primitives like these must admire my superior physical form, the athletic lines, and the length of my thin tusks. A body crafted to lull one male, in particular, into drooling compliance. His females into worshipping admirers, wishing by association they could also bask in my glory.
His heavy breathing is satisfying, proving my prediction and more. I thought myself constructed so that only one would find me perfect. Yet, delightfully, another is, therefore, I might attract multiple partners. This is a giddy feeling; I admit to myself. Being desired, being desirable. This body exudes pheromones. Although my reproduction organs are deep in icy river water, they excrete warm, lubricating secretions. It is exciting and completely opposite to my previous and mainly sterile existence on the Observer Ship. I will enjoy this body and certainly relish the companionship of Galactic Planet Agent 01-007A of the Galactic Planet Agency, otherwise known in this life as Lord Klar. I can’t suppress a giggle!
From behind me, a person with a deep and severe voice says, “I am uncertain what is so funny, given your present situation.”
I stand, slowly about-face, arms parting, hands open and empty. His jaw drops. That is such a rewarding compliment. His spear tip droops as his eyes try to examine every part of me and all of me at once. I sense. Two females flank him.
“Gorgrin, what are your orders?” asks the one on the left.
The one on the right, though, doesn’t wait for any orders and casts her massive brown bearskin cloak about my naked shoulders. The lingering body warmth in the cloak is a pleasant sensation. She quickly ties off the leather throng about my neck, avoiding eye contact. Next, she secures the fastenings down the front, drawing the cloak closed. I know her eyes examine my smooth skin and undercurrent of muscles as occasionally her hands caress my body as her actions hide what I sense she is envious of.
My eyes are on him. As my flesh disappears from his view, he blinks, takes a deep breath, and finally, an awareness returns to his eyes. He issues an order. I lick my lips, ensuring my long, slim tongue coats my tusks in saliva, bestowing a lustful sheen on them.
A pleasant, giddy feeling stirs in my stomach, which descends and stirs up my loins shortly after. His helpless staring, proof of my power over this male hobgoblin, is a heady new feeling. I need the same domination over Lord Klar for my mission to succeed, but this sign is encouraging. Four of his Hobgoblin huntresses surround me while another four escort him ahead of us. They ensure he doesn’t look back. They are jealous of me, of course. Several other huntresses follow. They labour in pairs or fours, hoisting the slain beasts of their hunt by tied appendages from sturdy poles.
A crowd gathers as we approach rough huts, rough-hewn village walls with flimsy wooden gates. The setting sun radiates and highlights my high cheekbones, prominent eyes and whiter-than-white, long, slim tusks. I bask in their attention, so they should admire me, for my form and beautiful face are perfect.
I see the incoming strike but can’t react in time as the spear butt from one of my escorts jabs into my stomach. The flicker of pain bends me over. In the next instant, my nanorobots repair the slight damage, and I fully recover.
“They aren’t interested in you, you gloating bitch. We carry sufficient for tonight’s feast and perhaps, if we are lucky, enough left over to store away for the snow season,” growls an escort.
With disappointment growing in my heart, I survey the crowd. I inwardly acknowledge the truth in her words, although some exceptions exist. Some hobgoblin females look long and hard, some smile, and some don’t. We pass through the open gates, and the thin crowd presses closer. Their eyes are on me as much as they are on the kills, but these are questioning eyes. I am a stranger to them. A stranger. I read the mistrust in their eyes. As I parade before them, I realise my mistake. This method of introduction to Lord Klar has been a mistake. I am an escorted prisoner. Perhaps they even see me as part of their successful hunt.
I note that one Huntress breaks away from escorting Gorgrin. Jogging ahead? A messenger? While behind, those huntresses hauling the kills also take a different path. I assume to slaughter and dress the slain beasts. We pass through another gate. Light, infrequent raindrops splatter on us, yet no one pays attention as we trudge onwards up the hillock. How can Lord Klar call this dreary place home? Be in any way satisfied, wallowing in this mud?
The three Huntresses escorting Gorgrin leave him as we step into shelter under a curious building. Unfinished wood, what a surprise, with a round upper level while the lower level is a smaller circle with the upper-level floor acting as a roof. The rain tumbles down now, and I wonder how the hunters are butchering the beasts in this weather.
No one asks me questions, no one talks to me. We wait. The four escorts don’t chat between themselves, and at some point, Gorgrin has also snuck away. My welcome is underwhelming, and a feeling of dread builds within me. Somehow, I thought Lord Klar would recognise and greet me with open arms.
Two of my escorts leave to be replaced by two others as night closes in and the rain eases. These two then hand off great cloaks to the two escorts, who stayed. My nanorobots absorb the shower and use the water to generate warmth, so I am comfortable enough even though my feet stand in wet, cold mud. My escorts seem impervious to the cold and rain as well. The rain beads and rolls off their greatcoats of soft leather and attached hoods. I can only imagine what they wear underneath because when I had the chance to take note, the information didn’t seem necessary.
My eyes extract every glimmer of light cast by the stars as the clouds part. Both escorts who stayed are shivering despite their great cloaks. They are still wet and need a fire, I suspect. I edge closer until one of them stares at me and instinctively takes half a step away. Reaching out with my nanorobots to heighten my senses, I try something easy. I task my nanorobots to hone my senses to detect nanorobots in the nearest shivering escort.
She has so few in her body that they must have migrated accidentally, not with intent.
My hand shoots out, grabbing her tusks. As she draws back, I ensure she slices my thumb on her teeth.
“Bitch!” she yelps.
“What?” asks another as she and the new escorts press forward towards me.
“She stuck her finger in my mouth,” says my target.
Raising my open palms, I reply, “She looked cold. I thought I would help. That’s all.”
My target shoulders her way through the other three. “What do you mean, help?”
They are my nanorobots. Initially potent and with a singular purpose, but now, they are more since imbuing them with two vats of this planet’s nanorobots. They are of Lord Klar, nurtured by this planet over generations, like, what humans would say, a fine wine. Yet I know his seed will be even more potent. For now, a test. I reach out to my nanorobots swimming in her bloodstream. Nothing.
Time to be bold. My hand reaches behind her neck and draws her closer. “Help,” I hiss. She struggles to free herself, and I instantly oblige. Three spear butts shove me back. In the moments of touch between us, I contact my nanorobots inside her.
“What did you do?” she asks.
I huff. “Magic.”
They all retreat two or three steps. The three check the one. A hand on her forehead, another asking if she feels different, and the last eyeing me.
“I feel warm,” she stammers.
What I did wasn’t magic, of course. Instead, science. Yet, lacking any words to explain the how the understanding will always be a mystery. To these four natives, the only acceptable explanation would be magic.
Three shapes stride towards us through the dark. One goblin small, a hobgoblin large and a hobgoblin male large. I know my escort is unaware of their approach. Still, I prepare to receive Lord Klar by loosening some leather throngs, so I can quickly throw off this crude cloak and reveal myself to him in all my glory.
He veers left at the last moment and barks an order at my escort. They bend one knee but don’t drop into the mud, and then the two fresh guards grab my arms, and we are back into the rain. We pass back through the two gates! This is madness.
At some point, the madness ends. Lord Klar and his two companions enter a building of dressed timber via a solid, crafted door inscribed with ornate carvings. I note everything now and the sign at the entrance, “The Lord’s Tankard”. One escort enters first, me next, and then the last one. No ceremony, no announcement. We all simply enter with muddy boots and dripping cloaks.
My feet land in cold water, and a goblin uses a brush to clean them. With a wet whack of the brush on my leg, I step out. A female hobgoblin unties the last leather throng and swings the cloak away. A moment passes, and it hangs from a hook on the wall. I note that under all the cloaks is another trough to collect the water runoff. After a heartbeat, all chatter falls into silence.
“I now see what all the fuss is about.” He leans forward, resting his arms and elbows on the table. A sly grin decorates his face. The female goblin standing beside him stabs the same table with a dagger. The sizeable female hobgoblin standing on his left folds her arms.
“Wild Ones, find some food if you are hungry, some warmth if you are not. I will be safe with this one.” He flicks his hand towards me.
“Yes, Lord,” they answer and bend a knee before grabbing their cloaks and leaving. I note that their soft leather pants and shirts look comfortable, and perhaps I should have worn similar after washing myself in the river. My nakedness illustrates that my perfect body is unique, and my exceptional beauty screams at everyone that I don’t belong. Combined, they convey superiority and extreme arrogance. The two on either side of Lord Klar have taken an instant dislike towards me, and I note they both rest a hand on the back of his neck. Protective and supportive, perhaps a more profound emotional pairing as well. This isn’t how I wanted to bond with Lord Klar’s lives and those he has spirit bonded with. Strong would have been acceptable but with an appearance of humility. I see now that naked, bold, and superior have been unhelpful.
I drop to one knee. “Lord Klar, I wish to enter your service. I will be whatever you want me to be until I prove my worth.”
His answer surprises me, not precisely because of the words, but the language. Terran Common. The de facto language of his home world, Earth.
“You are the Operator. Are you not from the Observer Ship? For some reason, you have decided to walk amongst us primitive common folk. We who scrape out a living in squalor and mud, lots of mud.”
“Yes, the situation in orbit has changed. When a Scout Ship arrived, many complications arose. Too many for us to discuss now, yet I have a question.” He waves at me to continue while he takes a tankard of liquid from a serving hobgoblin. The server casts a sly glance at me, smiles, and then recedes back into obscurity. Yet I am confident she listens, even though she can’t understand, just in case. “How did you know it was me?”
“You must have read my mind at least once, probably many times. Your body is my idea of the perfect female with subtle adjustments for hobgoblin dressing on the human form. The long, thin tusks were a good guess, especially for native hobgoblins of this planet.” I bow my head slightly. “But you should have arrived, well better. The news of your presence will be across the valley as fast as the messenger can travel. Know that sometimes that is a bird. So, if you wanted to assist my efforts quietly, that spaceship has blasted off. In fact, I don’t know what I can do with you. I assume you can offer much, but you are now a distraction, an amusement to gossip about.” He raises his arms and drops them back to the table in resignation.
I have much to teach him. His spirit bonded wives… How can I rescue myself from this blunder? Disfigurement? I could command the nanorobots to make physical adjustments, but that won’t be quick enough, even for slight changes.
“Reject me, cast me out. Banishment.”
“Yes,” he drawls.
“I will live like a hermit in the mountains, and your wives can find me, and I will teach them what they need to know. In that time, I will also change my appearance and eventually return so I can teach you.”
He smiles at me, but not the happy one. No, this is the dismissive one.
“I have one spirit-bonded wife without hands, so I would doubt her ability to climb, would you?”
“H… How?”
“Something carried on the sunlight, I suspect. Turned our nanorobots against us. I lost two spirit-bonded wives, Duzsia and Klaria. A third, Izga.” He draws in a long, slow breath. “I cut her arms off below the elbow to stop the infection. Luda, the goblin beside me, saved Koria on the other side of me. Fortunately, I and my other wives were underground. I assume a consequence of one complication we don’t have the time to discuss.” He raises his eyebrows.
How can I tell him it was necessary to me, especially my race? Perhaps, another angle…
“Unless you remove the spirit bond, your wives will return to you. The loss is temporary…”
His face sours as I speak, and I sense my choice isn’t the best angle to explain from. His grip on the table causes a creaking sound. Still, fortunately, the sturdy table like this tavern endures Lord Klar’s wrath.
He stands and kicks back his chair. The resultant clatter is loud. “Get!” he shouts, and he points to the door. I blink. “Innkeeper! Find her some clothes!”
He and his two wives storm out of the tavern, ignoring me as I stand alone, my mouth open. I suggested rejection but with secret visits. Was this a show? He spoke hobgoblin when he ordered me to be gone, so all, including the Innkeeper and staff, would understand his words.
His passion, though, is clear. The bond he can form is no longer only a functional benefit to him. His attachment is real, maybe even an enduring love of sorts. Unexpected or perhaps a byproduct or form of “going native”? The magic of this planet is potent, one of a handful of possibilities. My race has always made that observation, but and this is a big but, GPA 01-007A has added a unique temper or catalyst to this equation. Will this be enough to escape his fate?
I stand numb as the Innkeeper takes her time providing me with clothes and dressing me. When my borrowed huge bearskin cloak drapes around my shoulders, I realise it is time to go.
“Will you survive?” she asks as she herds me outside. “Follow the river. In either direction are other settlements. I am certain your beauty will attract protection and shelter.”
The rain is light with no wind. Torches from Lord Klar’s walls light the way, but firelight or starlight makes no difference. My eyes are keen enough to discern a way to leave without embarrassing myself and falling flat on my face. An involuntary shiver shatters my confidence. I have failed my people. I know my death will be final regardless of the number of activated nanorobots within me. My only way to escape this useless end? As a minimum, I needed to spirit bond with Lord Klar, as each return to his side would gift me more time. Further, given the Shifter Scientists’ analysis, they strongly suggest he has a finite number of lives to live. The number the majority settled on was ten. They concluded that his spirit would be too faint to bond with another flesh bag after ten bindings. This was at least his second of any duration, so for my race’s sake, we hope he has eight remaining, and I am by his side for each.
Scattered Shifter Scientists could only work in Human research teams. They confirmed nanorobots could repair flesh and enhance body function. In fact, they assisted Human Scientists to increase their robustness by engineering water as an energy source. This last tweak required sunlight to activate. Otherwise, the nanorobots would hibernate. Under Lord Klar’s influence, the nanorobots evolved to expand their capability to act as a catalyst to tap into this planet’s magic. Given Shifter Scientists couldn’t set up research labs, the only alternative would be a Shifter being reborn. Spirit bonding was the only answer. They theorised that controlled evolution may eventually produce a genetically pure Shifter native. Is it possible to accomplish in hundreds of years what took thousands of years on our home planet? It must be. Our race is in decline, and, absurdly, the humans are to blame, the race that needs our talents but is blind to the dependence.
As I trudge through the night, my single thought is, how can I turn this defeat into gaining the smallest of victories, spirit bonding with Lord Klar?
I am fleetingly aware of the blow to the back of my head as my consciousness descends into a void.
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.
