Once clear of Hobgoblin Town and prying eyes, I dismount and walk beside him. We both disappear in the long grass of the plains for the rest of the journey. With home not far away, I must decide if I should ride in triumphant or walk in, with or without my wolf by my side. After a time, my armour itches, but only on the left-hand side. The moment I go to rub the area by shifting the stiff leather, the need vanishes.
Shortly after, the left-hand side of my… no, her helm itches. This is easier, but the itching fades as I raise my hands. Over a short while, this itch travels from one piece of armour to the next, always on the left-hand side.
I grab his fur and hoist myself onto his back. We pause. No itching. I nudge him right, and after three loping strides, each piece of armour on my left-hand side itches or irritates my skin. A message, then? From whom? I pat the flanks of my wolf as I consider the impossible. How? Do I have a guide? Are they trying to protect me? Her armour, could this be Duzsia from beyond her death? A shiver runs down my spine. I trusted my mistress in life. Why not in death?
The grass plains are a vast area of this valley. The journey from Hobgoblin Town to Lord Klar’s village can follow many paths if you decide not to follow the single hardened or compacted dirt path. How could anyone predict which way I would take through the grass? A spy? Someone small? A goblin, a child hobgoblin, perhaps? How do they tell those ahead what path I am taking? How many times have I changed direction to arrive here? Almost none? The possibilities narrow, though, the closer I am to my destination…
“What do you smell on the wind, Old Wolf?”
He shakes his head after sniffing at the breeze.
I whisper in his ear when I don’t need to. “Left, as fast as you can in a wide arc.”
At the top of the arc, my right-hand side armour develops an itch. I take the hint.
“Right, as fast as you can.”
There are signs as he crosses what I believe would have been our original path. Trampled grass. They tied sheaths of grass, forming a hide. An arrow stuck in the ground as if in a ready position.
As our half-circle arc plays out, my wolf whines.
“I smell them again, not on the ground this time, but on the wind,” says Old Wolf in my mind.
“They are lying in wait as if we continued, but they would have spread out and hid to be certain of their ambush. One would have to signal to the others?” I dismount. “Lead us to the nearest.”
---
My target rises, her bow in two hands, attempting to evade my sword arcing towards her body. An unfortunate outcome because of my lack of stealth. I check my strike and kick out with a boot, catching her in the chest. Her open mouth yell dies as her lungs empty of air. Between her gasps, the hilt of my sword smashes into her forehead.
The rustling grass warns me, and I swivel to face another. This one carries their bow in one hand and several arrows in the other. Repositioning, not attacking? She runs onto my sword, her look of surprise complete as she slides off my blade. A black bloom spreads across the cloth of her shirt. Bubbles of black ichor escape from between her lips. No armour?
Old Wolf prowls nearby, on orders to attack only if many run at me at once. I spy him through the long grass and motion I am moving on.
Shortly after, there is a thump behind me, and I swivel about. Old Wolf mauls another of our ambushers. I must have snuck past a well-hidden hide. He? She? A whimper, a feeble cry for help, escapes, and another comes running. She drops her jaw. Blood ichor dripping from Old Wolf’s muzzle is pure brutal savagery. I swing my sword, lifting her head from her shoulders. Blood everywhere. My response is automatic: the ease of accomplishing such a feat… I swallow down, rising bile.
I need some distance from my kills. “Change of tactics, Old Wolf. Hide behind me. I will pick up a bow and call them to me.”
Each yell for help is louder than the previous one after my arrow strikes my rescuer. My hearing picks them up as they disturb the long grass, running to save me. Old Wolf and I had the same challenge when we tried to sneak up on them, although the prevailing breeze now assists us as their scent carries on the wind.
Nothing after the third yell and then a rustle of grass behind me.
Old Wolf has a goblin in his jaws. There is wriggling so the creature lives.
“How many?”
His eyes widen as Old Wolf’s saliva drips over his tiny neck.
“How many? Otherwise, my wolf will chew on you, one limb at a time?”
“Ten, there are ten,” he squeals.
If truthful, there is one more. We retreat to rejoin our first. She is still unconscious, and Old Wolf lies across her legs to keep her in place. He opens his jaws to confirm he can engulf her head. His glee fills my mind. The soggy goblin lies ridged where Old Wolf dumped him.
“Call to the one still out there.”
“We just yell…”
I tilt my head to one side. “If you don’t help us, you can be food, and she may be more reasonable.” I glance towards my first conquest.
His voice tries to escape, but I suspect nerves throttle his attempt, so I wave for him to continue. His second attempt is an improvement.
“I know it’s a trap!” replies a female voice. “He said we do this, and we would be Clan Members, but all that awaits us is death. How can one and a greying wolf kill so many? We were to ambush you!”
“Who is he?” I ask.
“No, he will hunt me down.”
“Aren’t you dead already? I have a goblin and another female, I can ask, but I am giving you a chance to live through this first.” I finish gagging and tying the soggy goblin. Next is the unconscious female.
“How do I know you won’t kill me after I tell you?”
“I am Duzsia the Relentless, and I say what I mean, no more and no less. Tell me the truth, and I will honour my promise to you.”
I am cleaning down my sword as the grass rustling grows louder.
“You are a wife of Lord Klar?” she says. Her hand hangs loose on the hilt of her sword.
“Yes, and this is my wolf. None escape his nose.”
“Clan Head Grimg sent us. There, I told you. Am I free to go?”
“Take a seat and get comfortable.” I pour water on the face of the unconscious female hobgoblin under Old Wolf. She splutters awake, and I whisper in her ear, making her a similar offer. She accuses Clan Head Durlarg. I gag her, slip the goblin’s gag down and whisper in his ear.
“High Priestess, is this wise?”
I tug the black hood into place, ensuring my face is in shadow, and then wrap the specially crafted voluminous robe around me. A downward glance confirms an overflow of cloth covers my feet. The hems of the robe will drag in the dirt. Such is the price of certainty. My four bearers wait for my first step, and as one, we advance into the middle of the day sun.
“A meeting at the entrance to my valley is better if I need to turn them away. What they say they are and what they are could be completely different.”
My bodyguard escorts me. Multiple troops of ten spears, who by co-incidence take the same path, follow behind.
---
The border fort of the former Sharp Fangs goblin tribe, now more prominent and made of stone, keeps watch on the Plains. I notice the faithful lineup on the topmost walls of the keep. Of course, their eyes search for me, and why shouldn’t they? Two groups of mixed goblin and hobgoblin mill around, safe on the valley side of the fort. Their conversations hush as I approach.
A smile full of amusement escapes my lips as they are true to their word. A modest number of representatives break from their respective groups and midway prostrate themselves and wait for my arrival. Shortly after, eyeing each other, they all rise again and hasten, competing to be the first to fall at my feet and heap praise on me. The flattery is enjoyable, but I must remain above such falseness.
“Rise and take two steps back.”
I address the overweight one first. “You speak first.” The calluses on his hands prove he can swing a sword that would otherwise be hanging off his hip, filling an empty sheath.
“You do me great honour, High Priestess.” Is that a tear in his eye? “I am Zorottor Black Tooth, Troop Leader of the Oath Keeper Clan.” His hand waves to his right. “With me is the Crone of the Oath Keepers. We have kept our blood pure and been faithful for many generations. We have been preparing to fight to see an Oath Keeper High Priestess reign in the holy valley.” His open hands rise towards me. “Now, joy of joys, we are instead returning to be by her side to serve and protect.”
My scribes have already told me this troop of goblins lacks warriors, although almost every female is pregnant—something I didn’t expect.
“Tell me, crone, what can your High Priestess do for your troop?”
She drops to her knees, her pitiful goblin eyes trying to plead her case through my heart.
“A place to settle, end our wandering and till the soil. Help with our birthing. All are hobgoblin babes. Most will be males, he assured us. We will devote ourselves to the worship of Lord Klug through your teachings and guidance, High Priestess. We are Oath Keepers and will always serve you loyally.”
The others who accompanied them hear her words. They shift and squirm, biting their tongues. The second tribe aren’t Oath Keepers, and all are hobgoblins with few exceptions, my scribe tells me. They are the reverse: many male warriors and few females. When first told of these two tribes, their unusual difference was as much of an interest as anything else.
“Are you suggesting we accept one fathered all the goblin females? Are they all due within weeks or months of each other?”
“One, High Priestess. Within a day, maybe two of each other.” She drops her eyes.
I fling an empty hand out to one side. A heartbeat later, a cup is in my grasp. I take a slow sip. Why did I choose to stand? My legs feel like jelly. Does the cup cover most of my face? I try not to blush. They have over one hundred due to give birth at least. One male in one night! Should I burst out laughing or have them whipped? I remember who I am and regain my posture.
“The name of this potent male?”
“He, he isn’t important, High Priestess. His blood was acceptable and lay with us. Eventually, he guaranteed our freedom.”
With extreme effort, I resist the urge to scream at this stupid pig of a crone. Instead, I beam a radiant, wide smile at her.
“Look at me.” She raises her head. “Entertain your High Priestess and explain. Every detail, the complete story.”
I hold up a hand before she begins, and a comfortable chair is under my buttocks when I nod for her to start.
While thinking she is being helpful, my scribe whispers into my ears to remind me of the obvious. I hiss at her the third time, and she holds her tongue. Apart from being annoying, I am confident the crone could eavesdrop on the scribe’s every word. Goblin ears are like that if my assassin friend is an example.
Mid-afternoon, the crone finishes, climbs to her feet, and waits. Her eyes stare at the ground.
One of them clears their throat while I try to understand her stupidity. “Would the High Priestess permit me to ask some questions of the crone about her, erm, clan’s history?”
Broad shoulders. Strong, prominent tusks. He may be intelligent as well. “Yes,” I reply, trying to conceal the relief in my voice. I need time to let go of the urge to wring the crone’s neck. Something a High Priestess shouldn’t do. Well, not in front of so many, at least.
“There are no males who can successfully impregnate more than a handful of women in a night except in legend. You realise that?”
She rocks back on her haunches. “He said his ancient mother was one of Lord Klug’s wives, and he was never told which one. Lord Torngul Heartsplitter knew of him and introduced him to the whole valley, to Hobgoblin Town as Lord Klar.” Her hands rest on her hips. A venom now coats her words. “He was a young noble dispossessed of his lands, from another valley. Lord Torngul granted him land in the valley, and he won us as enslaved people but promised us freedom for helping him establish his fort, village, and farmlands.”
A baby cries. I snap my head toward the offender. One of the others… A female who has recently given birth, maybe a year ago. A rarity for that tribe. The mother forces the babe to her tit, and once again we have quiet.
“He can’t be a descendant of one of Lord Klug’s wives,” he replies.
I cock an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because many wrote their truths.” He brandishes a worn leather satchel. “I have read the family tree of Lord Klug because my name is there, and I know that Lord Klar’s name is not. Unless he is the first in over two hundred years to claim descent from Luda’s branch. But that would mean she and those who followed her burial in the mountain to escape Rexa’s spawn, Klugrath, didn’t die. But none of her branch has survived because none have ever tasted her blood’s linage.”
The baby coos and chatters, celebrating a stomach full of her mother’s milk.
The crone spits on the ground, missing his boots. “How do you explain the pregnant goblins you have been escorting for weeks, all with hobgoblin babes in their bellies and all due within a day or two of each other?”
“He is not Lord Klar, is all I say. His true name is something else. He can only do what two others have been able to do in known history. Lord Klug and the brutal Klugrath. Klugrath’s brother, Kluggoth, was capable but didn’t get his rape victims pregnant with the proficiency of Klugrath. However, according to certain writings of Zeb Stone Grim, he believed him to be Klugrath’s son. This cross-breeding could certainly explain his weakness.”
The baby cries again, and the mother is busy hushing her with soft words.
My Scribe whispers, “There are two other wives of Lord Klug, High Priestess. Karo and Ligia. Records of them cease shortly after Milga Stone Blood left the valley.”
While I appreciate the information, I am sure the crone overheard as well. Uncertain if, by plan or accident, my scribe hands me a parchment to read. All must endure while I do so.
“On which limb or what branch do you sit?” I ask him.
He glances about him. Is this some secret?
“The daughters of Duzsia and Koria each escaped with their children, a twenty-year-old goblin son and a sixteen-year-old hobgoblin son. Father of both being Klugrath. The goblin son was conceived when the father and mother were both young, and Klugrath was still somewhat sane. The sixteen-year-old hobgoblin son conceived during a rape, unknown to Rexa then, and probably for all time. Each mother had a goblin branch and a hobgoblin branch. My ancestor was Duzsia, the Relentless, hobgoblin line.”
The babe howls, and all but him, arms folded across his chest, staring at a frantic mother trying to soothe her child into silence. Finally, her words must work because silence returns. His arms unfold, and one wraps around the mother’s shoulder. Is he the baby’s father?
I tap my chin. “The linages of Duzsia, Koria and Luda have ever been tragic allies of Zoria Oath Keeper, so I welcome you to the Valley of Lord Farmer Hob. I have a condition.” He eyes me suspiciously. “I would value reading your lineage and, with your permission, have Oath Keeper scribes copy your histories to add to our library.”
He hugs the satchel to his chest. “These are papers on lineage and the sad tales of our decline. Secrets, well-kept for my generations.”
I push myself up from my chair. “While I ask politely, know this is my price.” I drop my mask of politeness for a moment and scowl. I return to the comfort of my chair. This gives him several moments to consider his options.
“I can offer this,” he says. Before I can protest, he blathers on. “Few know that when Klugrath the Vanquisher raped the conquered, his spawn would be pure Lord Klug. Goblin mothers would die birthing hobgoblins, but many would try to abort the pregnancy before due. Dying, if need be. Hobgoblin mothers would try to abort also, the majority dying. Then, someone found an herb. This herb would abort the child, but if the mother took too much of it, it could make them infertile. Why would these victims go to such lengths? Because any who carried full term would lose their lineage, and goblin crones would taste the Lord Klug lineage in their blood.”
His words distract me. “Tribes of non-worshippers would disown them…” I hiss. Shaking my head, I glance at the baby. The smiling, joyful eyes of the baby are like a thorn, adding pain without need. “But for better or for ill, Klugrath, the Vanquisher, could also be called Klugrath the Propagator, the spreader of our religion.” His face squirms in the face of an ugly truth, so I mean to test him further. “Our religion may have had a difficult origin, but as High Priestess, I envision a glorious future, and while I acknowledge the incredible feat of the father of my goblin Oath Keepers, you may have forgotten a plausible explanation. What do your histories tell of Karo and Ligia?”
“N… nothing,” he stammers, as he should.
I knew by having my scribes scour the archives; they would turn up obscure information; I didn’t think this rough pebble would one day shine and be of any value.
“Karo and Ligia assisted Zoria Oath Keeper in her duties. But like many wives of Lord Klug, they were pregnant at the time of his death. High Priestess Rexa took all their babies into her care to control their mothers, but Karo and Ligia secretly replaced their babies. High Priestess Rexa only learnt of this much later when the growth rates of the various children differed so much. Lord Klug’s seed was always a vigorous blessing. The point I make is that you have no history of them, and neither does the Temple or the Tower of the Oath Keepers.” I grip the arms of my chair and lean forward.
He grovels. “I beg forgiveness, High Priestess.”
“You will have my forgiveness when you apologise to the crone of my Oath Keepers. It would be best if you never forget they are Oath Keepers. They don’t habitually lie and certainly wouldn’t lie to their High Priestess.”
Still grovelling, he turns to face the crone. “I apologise. No one knows everything, least of all me.”
She beams a radiant smile at me as she approaches him. Pats his head and says, “I accept your apology.”
A heartbeat later, the baby’s mouth opens in shock, screaming in pain. The mother steps back behind her husband, hugging and protecting her child.
The goblin crone finishes tasting the blood on her fingernail and snarls at mother and baby. “Tainted Klugite, perhaps Klugrath!”
All scatter away from the mother, including her husband, who scrambles to his feet to do so. She stands alone.
The mother’s finger stabs at the crone. “She is wrong!” She finds her husband, and her eyes beg. “Tell them! Tell them you are the father. I was pregnant before they raided us.” She screams, “Tell them!”
Two spears transfix her body, one erupting from her chest, the other from her back. The screaming baby falls from her grasp, ending abruptly when it hits the ground with a thunk.
The last of Duzsia’s lineage howls in grief while throwing himself to the ground. Oddly, the crone pats his shoulder and consoles him. Shortly after, he rushes off to his tribe, and after some harsh words, he leaves them. He is a solitary, hulking shape in the shadow of dusk until he disappears.
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
She raises her head. With a sheepish face, she says, “I thought to assist him, High Priestess. The father I spoke of has a wife. Her blood is pure Duzsia, the Relentless lineage if he needed to find another wife.”
I chuckle and waggle a finger in her direction. “Does he walk to his death?”
“If victorious, he will win a wife and a holding. If he dies, what does it matter?”
“He is the last of her line…”
She blinks. She tilts her head to one side. “If he dies, what does it matter?” she repeats.
I lean back into the comfort of my chair. My feelings are mixed. If the lineage of one of Lord Klug’s wives ceases, it should be a tragedy, an irreparable break from the past. Does this mean other lineages could end? Why does that seem important, I wonder?
“Please inform all present they are now, Oath Keepers. If any are unhappy with this, they can leave the valley.”
The crone swallows. “Even his hobgoblins?”
“Yes. Your pregnant goblins will require fathers. You will teach any future births to purify their blood.”
Her devious smile warms my heart. “Yes, High Priestess, your wisdom is great.”
With that, she hustles all those before me away. I wait to witness the shock of the news on the two tribes. Some forget themselves and yell in protest. They quiet themselves when I cast my eyes in their direction. Some leave after that, but most male hobgoblins stay.
I signal to my escort. They shade me until I reach my litter. Climbing in, I wave them to lift and carry me back to the temple. This will give me several days to myself, and I am soon deep in my thoughts.
The apparent mystery is how Klugrath’s lineage survived through the ages. His rapes left babes of pure Lord Klug lineage. High Priestess Rexa and her insidious family tree must be the source. Inbreeding over the years, cousins begetting children by cousins, resulting in less pure Klugite and more Klugrath tainting.
This may be the wrong thinking. Klugrath would have been half Lord Klug and half Rexa. Klugrath begat children by the children of Lord Klug’s other wives, presumably at Rexa’s insistence. She then kept them from their mothers. What if Rexa polluted all the babies in her care in the early years with her blood? Breastfeeding? Lord Klug’s lineage would be dominant, but Rexa’s lineage may have been able to displace the mother’s lineage over many years. If true, how did the lineages of Klug’s other wives endure?
Karo and Ligia’s babes escaped Rexa’s clutches so Rexa could never taint their lineages. Bekto, Zuxa and Lazsia surrendered their babies by Lord Klug to Rexa, begat hobgoblin babies to Klugrath, and died in childbirth. Of all the wives of Lord Klug, their progeny would have been most influenced by Rexa. The babes of Duzsia, Luda and Koria by Lord Klug remained with Rexa until they were old enough to be raped by Klugrath. Without intervention, they and their babes would be a mixed lineage of Lord Klug and Rexa. Yet, the lineages of Duzsia and Koria survived, and the assumption is Luda’s would as well if any of her descendants survived. How?
Lord Klug's blood is required for a goblin mother to survive giving birth to a hobgoblin babe. Zoria Oath Keeper, bless her, knew of, or perhaps discovered this technique. Indeed, records show Rexa was angry enough with Zoria about the spreading of this secret she tortured her. With Lord Klug’s blood in her veins, Zoria would heal, and Rexa would torture her again and again. Rexa allowed her to die when she finally grew bored or perhaps satisfied. The scribes were vague on this detail.
Perhaps while teaching the daughters of Duzsia, Koria and Luda this secret, Zoria also taught them how to purify the last precious drops of their mother’s blood. This assumes that Rexa hadn’t eliminated their mother’s lineage from their blood after the years. Perhaps the more straightforward explanation is that they changed Rexa’s lineage in their blood and probably Lord Klug’s lineage to something else. This then became their lineage tasted and learned by Crones ever afterwards.
Thwarting Rexa this way would’ve made Zoria happy. This also means that what the crones believe is Klugrath’s lineage is more accurately Rexa’s lineage. Further, if Zeb Stone Grim’s writings were genuine, that could explain why Kluggoth was such a failure. He had too much of Rexa’s lineage. He would have been three-quarters Rexa lineage and one-quarter Klug lineage if Klugrath was the father of his mother’s child. Still, why did Rexa try to eliminate the blood lineages of Lord Klug’s other wives? Pure vindictiveness? Or some deliberate plan?
Oh! I have entirely missed something crucial. I eliminated as many of Klugrath’s and Kluggoth’s family trees as possible, but I missed Rexa’s family tree entirely. Those who would have sprung from Bekto, Zuxa, and Lazsia. It's time to correct that oversight.
“High Priestess, are you alright?” asks my scribe, walking beside my litter.
I blank my face. “Of course.” Perhaps my genuine enthusiasm shone through a little too obvious.
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.
Once clear of Hobgoblin Town and prying eyes, I dismount and walk beside him. We both disappear in the long grass of the plains for the rest of the journey. With home not far away, I must decide if I should ride in triumphant or walk in, with or without my wolf by my side. After a time, my armour itches, but only on the left-hand side. The moment I go to rub the area by shifting the stiff leather, the need vanishes.
Shortly after, the left-hand side of my… no, her helm itches. This is easier, but the itching fades as I raise my hands. Over a short while, this itch travels from one piece of armour to the next, always on the left-hand side.
I grab his fur and hoist myself onto his back. We pause. No itching. I nudge him right, and after three loping strides, each piece of armour on my left-hand side itches or irritates my skin. A message, then? From whom? I pat the flanks of my wolf as I consider the impossible. How? Do I have a guide? Are they trying to protect me? Her armour, could this be Duzsia from beyond her death? A shiver runs down my spine. I trusted my mistress in life. Why not in death?
The grass plains are a vast area of this valley. The journey from Hobgoblin Town to Lord Klar’s village can follow many paths if you decide not to follow the single hardened or compacted dirt path. How could anyone predict which way I would take through the grass? A spy? Someone small? A goblin, a child hobgoblin, perhaps? How do they tell those ahead what path I am taking? How many times have I changed direction to arrive here? Almost none? The possibilities narrow, though, the closer I am to my destination…
“What do you smell on the wind, Old Wolf?”
He shakes his head after sniffing at the breeze.
I whisper in his ear when I don’t need to. “Left, as fast as you can in a wide arc.”
At the top of the arc, my right-hand side armour develops an itch. I take the hint.
“Right, as fast as you can.”
There are signs as he crosses what I believe would have been our original path. Trampled grass. They tied sheaths of grass, forming a hide. An arrow stuck in the ground as if in a ready position.
As our half-circle arc plays out, my wolf whines.
“I smell them again, not on the ground this time, but on the wind,” says Old Wolf in my mind.
“They are lying in wait as if we continued, but they would have spread out and hid to be certain of their ambush. One would have to signal to the others?” I dismount. “Lead us to the nearest.”
---
My target rises, her bow in two hands, attempting to evade my sword arcing towards her body. An unfortunate outcome because of my lack of stealth. I check my strike and kick out with a boot, catching her in the chest. Her open mouth yell dies as her lungs empty of air. Between her gasps, the hilt of my sword smashes into her forehead.
The rustling grass warns me, and I swivel to face another. This one carries their bow in one hand and several arrows in the other. Repositioning, not attacking? She runs onto my sword, her look of surprise complete as she slides off my blade. A black bloom spreads across the cloth of her shirt. Bubbles of black ichor escape from between her lips. No armour?
Old Wolf prowls nearby, on orders to attack only if many run at me at once. I spy him through the long grass and motion I am moving on.
Shortly after, there is a thump behind me, and I swivel about. Old Wolf mauls another of our ambushers. I must have snuck past a well-hidden hide. He? She? A whimper, a feeble cry for help, escapes, and another comes running. She drops her jaw. Blood ichor dripping from Old Wolf’s muzzle is pure brutal savagery. I swing my sword, lifting her head from her shoulders. Blood everywhere. My response is automatic: the ease of accomplishing such a feat… I swallow down, rising bile.
I need some distance from my kills. “Change of tactics, Old Wolf. Hide behind me. I will pick up a bow and call them to me.”
Each yell for help is louder than the previous one after my arrow strikes my rescuer. My hearing picks them up as they disturb the long grass, running to save me. Old Wolf and I had the same challenge when we tried to sneak up on them, although the prevailing breeze now assists us as their scent carries on the wind.
Nothing after the third yell and then a rustle of grass behind me.
Old Wolf has a goblin in his jaws. There is wriggling so the creature lives.
“How many?”
His eyes widen as Old Wolf’s saliva drips over his tiny neck.
“How many? Otherwise, my wolf will chew on you, one limb at a time?”
“Ten, there are ten,” he squeals.
If truthful, there is one more. We retreat to rejoin our first. She is still unconscious, and Old Wolf lies across her legs to keep her in place. He opens his jaws to confirm he can engulf her head. His glee fills my mind. The soggy goblin lies ridged where Old Wolf dumped him.
“Call to the one still out there.”
“We just yell…”
I tilt my head to one side. “If you don’t help us, you can be food, and she may be more reasonable.” I glance towards my first conquest.
His voice tries to escape, but I suspect nerves throttle his attempt, so I wave for him to continue. His second attempt is an improvement.
“I know it’s a trap!” replies a female voice. “He said we do this, and we would be Clan Members, but all that awaits us is death. How can one and a greying wolf kill so many? We were to ambush you!”
“Who is he?” I ask.
“No, he will hunt me down.”
“Aren’t you dead already? I have a goblin and another female, I can ask, but I am giving you a chance to live through this first.” I finish gagging and tying the soggy goblin. Next is the unconscious female.
“How do I know you won’t kill me after I tell you?”
“I am Duzsia the Relentless, and I say what I mean, no more and no less. Tell me the truth, and I will honour my promise to you.”
I am cleaning down my sword as the grass rustling grows louder.
“You are a wife of Lord Klar?” she says. Her hand hangs loose on the hilt of her sword.
“Yes, and this is my wolf. None escape his nose.”
“Clan Head Grimg sent us. There, I told you. Am I free to go?”
“Take a seat and get comfortable.” I pour water on the face of the unconscious female hobgoblin under Old Wolf. She splutters awake, and I whisper in her ear, making her a similar offer. She accuses Clan Head Durlarg. I gag her, slip the goblin’s gag down and whisper in his ear.
“High Priestess, is this wise?”
I tug the black hood into place, ensuring my face is in shadow, and then wrap the specially crafted voluminous robe around me. A downward glance confirms an overflow of cloth covers my feet. The hems of the robe will drag in the dirt. Such is the price of certainty. My four bearers wait for my first step, and as one, we advance into the middle of the day sun.
“A meeting at the entrance to my valley is better if I need to turn them away. What they say they are and what they are could be completely different.”
My bodyguard escorts me. Multiple troops of ten spears, who by co-incidence take the same path, follow behind.
---
The border fort of the former Sharp Fangs goblin tribe, now more prominent and made of stone, keeps watch on the Plains. I notice the faithful lineup on the topmost walls of the keep. Of course, their eyes search for me, and why shouldn’t they? Two groups of mixed goblin and hobgoblin mill around, safe on the valley side of the fort. Their conversations hush as I approach.
A smile full of amusement escapes my lips as they are true to their word. A modest number of representatives break from their respective groups and midway prostrate themselves and wait for my arrival. Shortly after, eyeing each other, they all rise again and hasten, competing to be the first to fall at my feet and heap praise on me. The flattery is enjoyable, but I must remain above such falseness.
“Rise and take two steps back.”
I address the overweight one first. “You speak first.” The calluses on his hands prove he can swing a sword that would otherwise be hanging off his hip, filling an empty sheath.
“You do me great honour, High Priestess.” Is that a tear in his eye? “I am Zorottor Black Tooth, Troop Leader of the Oath Keeper Clan.” His hand waves to his right. “With me is the Crone of the Oath Keepers. We have kept our blood pure and been faithful for many generations. We have been preparing to fight to see an Oath Keeper High Priestess reign in the holy valley.” His open hands rise towards me. “Now, joy of joys, we are instead returning to be by her side to serve and protect.”
My scribes have already told me this troop of goblins lacks warriors, although almost every female is pregnant—something I didn’t expect.
“Tell me, crone, what can your High Priestess do for your troop?”
She drops to her knees, her pitiful goblin eyes trying to plead her case through my heart.
“A place to settle, end our wandering and till the soil. Help with our birthing. All are hobgoblin babes. Most will be males, he assured us. We will devote ourselves to the worship of Lord Klug through your teachings and guidance, High Priestess. We are Oath Keepers and will always serve you loyally.”
The others who accompanied them hear her words. They shift and squirm, biting their tongues. The second tribe aren’t Oath Keepers, and all are hobgoblins with few exceptions, my scribe tells me. They are the reverse: many male warriors and few females. When first told of these two tribes, their unusual difference was as much of an interest as anything else.
“Are you suggesting we accept one fathered all the goblin females? Are they all due within weeks or months of each other?”
“One, High Priestess. Within a day, maybe two of each other.” She drops her eyes.
I fling an empty hand out to one side. A heartbeat later, a cup is in my grasp. I take a slow sip. Why did I choose to stand? My legs feel like jelly. Does the cup cover most of my face? I try not to blush. They have over one hundred due to give birth at least. One male in one night! Should I burst out laughing or have them whipped? I remember who I am and regain my posture.
“The name of this potent male?”
“He, he isn’t important, High Priestess. His blood was acceptable and lay with us. Eventually, he guaranteed our freedom.”
With extreme effort, I resist the urge to scream at this stupid pig of a crone. Instead, I beam a radiant, wide smile at her.
“Look at me.” She raises her head. “Entertain your High Priestess and explain. Every detail, the complete story.”
I hold up a hand before she begins, and a comfortable chair is under my buttocks when I nod for her to start.
While thinking she is being helpful, my scribe whispers into my ears to remind me of the obvious. I hiss at her the third time, and she holds her tongue. Apart from being annoying, I am confident the crone could eavesdrop on the scribe’s every word. Goblin ears are like that if my assassin friend is an example.
Mid-afternoon, the crone finishes, climbs to her feet, and waits. Her eyes stare at the ground.
One of them clears their throat while I try to understand her stupidity. “Would the High Priestess permit me to ask some questions of the crone about her, erm, clan’s history?”
Broad shoulders. Strong, prominent tusks. He may be intelligent as well. “Yes,” I reply, trying to conceal the relief in my voice. I need time to let go of the urge to wring the crone’s neck. Something a High Priestess shouldn’t do. Well, not in front of so many, at least.
“There are no males who can successfully impregnate more than a handful of women in a night except in legend. You realise that?”
She rocks back on her haunches. “He said his ancient mother was one of Lord Klug’s wives, and he was never told which one. Lord Torngul Heartsplitter knew of him and introduced him to the whole valley, to Hobgoblin Town as Lord Klar.” Her hands rest on her hips. A venom now coats her words. “He was a young noble dispossessed of his lands, from another valley. Lord Torngul granted him land in the valley, and he won us as enslaved people but promised us freedom for helping him establish his fort, village, and farmlands.”
A baby cries. I snap my head toward the offender. One of the others… A female who has recently given birth, maybe a year ago. A rarity for that tribe. The mother forces the babe to her tit, and once again we have quiet.
“He can’t be a descendant of one of Lord Klug’s wives,” he replies.
I cock an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because many wrote their truths.” He brandishes a worn leather satchel. “I have read the family tree of Lord Klug because my name is there, and I know that Lord Klar’s name is not. Unless he is the first in over two hundred years to claim descent from Luda’s branch. But that would mean she and those who followed her burial in the mountain to escape Rexa’s spawn, Klugrath, didn’t die. But none of her branch has survived because none have ever tasted her blood’s linage.”
The baby coos and chatters, celebrating a stomach full of her mother’s milk.
The crone spits on the ground, missing his boots. “How do you explain the pregnant goblins you have been escorting for weeks, all with hobgoblin babes in their bellies and all due within a day or two of each other?”
“He is not Lord Klar, is all I say. His true name is something else. He can only do what two others have been able to do in known history. Lord Klug and the brutal Klugrath. Klugrath’s brother, Kluggoth, was capable but didn’t get his rape victims pregnant with the proficiency of Klugrath. However, according to certain writings of Zeb Stone Grim, he believed him to be Klugrath’s son. This cross-breeding could certainly explain his weakness.”
The baby cries again, and the mother is busy hushing her with soft words.
My Scribe whispers, “There are two other wives of Lord Klug, High Priestess. Karo and Ligia. Records of them cease shortly after Milga Stone Blood left the valley.”
While I appreciate the information, I am sure the crone overheard as well. Uncertain if, by plan or accident, my scribe hands me a parchment to read. All must endure while I do so.
“On which limb or what branch do you sit?” I ask him.
He glances about him. Is this some secret?
“The daughters of Duzsia and Koria each escaped with their children, a twenty-year-old goblin son and a sixteen-year-old hobgoblin son. Father of both being Klugrath. The goblin son was conceived when the father and mother were both young, and Klugrath was still somewhat sane. The sixteen-year-old hobgoblin son conceived during a rape, unknown to Rexa then, and probably for all time. Each mother had a goblin branch and a hobgoblin branch. My ancestor was Duzsia, the Relentless, hobgoblin line.”
The babe howls, and all but him, arms folded across his chest, staring at a frantic mother trying to soothe her child into silence. Finally, her words must work because silence returns. His arms unfold, and one wraps around the mother’s shoulder. Is he the baby’s father?
I tap my chin. “The linages of Duzsia, Koria and Luda have ever been tragic allies of Zoria Oath Keeper, so I welcome you to the Valley of Lord Farmer Hob. I have a condition.” He eyes me suspiciously. “I would value reading your lineage and, with your permission, have Oath Keeper scribes copy your histories to add to our library.”
He hugs the satchel to his chest. “These are papers on lineage and the sad tales of our decline. Secrets, well-kept for my generations.”
I push myself up from my chair. “While I ask politely, know this is my price.” I drop my mask of politeness for a moment and scowl. I return to the comfort of my chair. This gives him several moments to consider his options.
“I can offer this,” he says. Before I can protest, he blathers on. “Few know that when Klugrath the Vanquisher raped the conquered, his spawn would be pure Lord Klug. Goblin mothers would die birthing hobgoblins, but many would try to abort the pregnancy before due. Dying, if need be. Hobgoblin mothers would try to abort also, the majority dying. Then, someone found an herb. This herb would abort the child, but if the mother took too much of it, it could make them infertile. Why would these victims go to such lengths? Because any who carried full term would lose their lineage, and goblin crones would taste the Lord Klug lineage in their blood.”
His words distract me. “Tribes of non-worshippers would disown them…” I hiss. Shaking my head, I glance at the baby. The smiling, joyful eyes of the baby are like a thorn, adding pain without need. “But for better or for ill, Klugrath, the Vanquisher, could also be called Klugrath the Propagator, the spreader of our religion.” His face squirms in the face of an ugly truth, so I mean to test him further. “Our religion may have had a difficult origin, but as High Priestess, I envision a glorious future, and while I acknowledge the incredible feat of the father of my goblin Oath Keepers, you may have forgotten a plausible explanation. What do your histories tell of Karo and Ligia?”
“N… nothing,” he stammers, as he should.
I knew by having my scribes scour the archives; they would turn up obscure information; I didn’t think this rough pebble would one day shine and be of any value.
“Karo and Ligia assisted Zoria Oath Keeper in her duties. But like many wives of Lord Klug, they were pregnant at the time of his death. High Priestess Rexa took all their babies into her care to control their mothers, but Karo and Ligia secretly replaced their babies. High Priestess Rexa only learnt of this much later when the growth rates of the various children differed so much. Lord Klug’s seed was always a vigorous blessing. The point I make is that you have no history of them, and neither does the Temple or the Tower of the Oath Keepers.” I grip the arms of my chair and lean forward.
He grovels. “I beg forgiveness, High Priestess.”
“You will have my forgiveness when you apologise to the crone of my Oath Keepers. It would be best if you never forget they are Oath Keepers. They don’t habitually lie and certainly wouldn’t lie to their High Priestess.”
Still grovelling, he turns to face the crone. “I apologise. No one knows everything, least of all me.”
She beams a radiant smile at me as she approaches him. Pats his head and says, “I accept your apology.”
A heartbeat later, the baby’s mouth opens in shock, screaming in pain. The mother steps back behind her husband, hugging and protecting her child.
The goblin crone finishes tasting the blood on her fingernail and snarls at mother and baby. “Tainted Klugite, perhaps Klugrath!”
All scatter away from the mother, including her husband, who scrambles to his feet to do so. She stands alone.
The mother’s finger stabs at the crone. “She is wrong!” She finds her husband, and her eyes beg. “Tell them! Tell them you are the father. I was pregnant before they raided us.” She screams, “Tell them!”
Two spears transfix her body, one erupting from her chest, the other from her back. The screaming baby falls from her grasp, ending abruptly when it hits the ground with a thunk.
The last of Duzsia’s lineage howls in grief while throwing himself to the ground. Oddly, the crone pats his shoulder and consoles him. Shortly after, he rushes off to his tribe, and after some harsh words, he leaves them. He is a solitary, hulking shape in the shadow of dusk until he disappears.
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
She raises her head. With a sheepish face, she says, “I thought to assist him, High Priestess. The father I spoke of has a wife. Her blood is pure Duzsia, the Relentless lineage if he needed to find another wife.”
I chuckle and waggle a finger in her direction. “Does he walk to his death?”
“If victorious, he will win a wife and a holding. If he dies, what does it matter?”
“He is the last of her line…”
She blinks. She tilts her head to one side. “If he dies, what does it matter?” she repeats.
I lean back into the comfort of my chair. My feelings are mixed. If the lineage of one of Lord Klug’s wives ceases, it should be a tragedy, an irreparable break from the past. Does this mean other lineages could end? Why does that seem important, I wonder?
“Please inform all present they are now, Oath Keepers. If any are unhappy with this, they can leave the valley.”
The crone swallows. “Even his hobgoblins?”
“Yes. Your pregnant goblins will require fathers. You will teach any future births to purify their blood.”
Her devious smile warms my heart. “Yes, High Priestess, your wisdom is great.”
With that, she hustles all those before me away. I wait to witness the shock of the news on the two tribes. Some forget themselves and yell in protest. They quiet themselves when I cast my eyes in their direction. Some leave after that, but most male hobgoblins stay.
I signal to my escort. They shade me until I reach my litter. Climbing in, I wave them to lift and carry me back to the temple. This will give me several days to myself, and I am soon deep in my thoughts.
The apparent mystery is how Klugrath’s lineage survived through the ages. His rapes left babes of pure Lord Klug lineage. High Priestess Rexa and her insidious family tree must be the source. Inbreeding over the years, cousins begetting children by cousins, resulting in less pure Klugite and more Klugrath tainting.
This may be the wrong thinking. Klugrath would have been half Lord Klug and half Rexa. Klugrath begat children by the children of Lord Klug’s other wives, presumably at Rexa’s insistence. She then kept them from their mothers. What if Rexa polluted all the babies in her care in the early years with her blood? Breastfeeding? Lord Klug’s lineage would be dominant, but Rexa’s lineage may have been able to displace the mother’s lineage over many years. If true, how did the lineages of Klug’s other wives endure?
Karo and Ligia’s babes escaped Rexa’s clutches so Rexa could never taint their lineages. Bekto, Zuxa and Lazsia surrendered their babies by Lord Klug to Rexa, begat hobgoblin babies to Klugrath, and died in childbirth. Of all the wives of Lord Klug, their progeny would have been most influenced by Rexa. The babes of Duzsia, Luda and Koria by Lord Klug remained with Rexa until they were old enough to be raped by Klugrath. Without intervention, they and their babes would be a mixed lineage of Lord Klug and Rexa. Yet, the lineages of Duzsia and Koria survived, and the assumption is Luda’s would as well if any of her descendants survived. How?
Lord Klug's blood is required for a goblin mother to survive giving birth to a hobgoblin babe. Zoria Oath Keeper, bless her, knew of, or perhaps discovered this technique. Indeed, records show Rexa was angry enough with Zoria about the spreading of this secret she tortured her. With Lord Klug’s blood in her veins, Zoria would heal, and Rexa would torture her again and again. Rexa allowed her to die when she finally grew bored or perhaps satisfied. The scribes were vague on this detail.
Perhaps while teaching the daughters of Duzsia, Koria and Luda this secret, Zoria also taught them how to purify the last precious drops of their mother’s blood. This assumes that Rexa hadn’t eliminated their mother’s lineage from their blood after the years. Perhaps the more straightforward explanation is that they changed Rexa’s lineage in their blood and probably Lord Klug’s lineage to something else. This then became their lineage tasted and learned by Crones ever afterwards.
Thwarting Rexa this way would’ve made Zoria happy. This also means that what the crones believe is Klugrath’s lineage is more accurately Rexa’s lineage. Further, if Zeb Stone Grim’s writings were genuine, that could explain why Kluggoth was such a failure. He had too much of Rexa’s lineage. He would have been three-quarters Rexa lineage and one-quarter Klug lineage if Klugrath was the father of his mother’s child. Still, why did Rexa try to eliminate the blood lineages of Lord Klug’s other wives? Pure vindictiveness? Or some deliberate plan?
Oh! I have entirely missed something crucial. I eliminated as many of Klugrath’s and Kluggoth’s family trees as possible, but I missed Rexa’s family tree entirely. Those who would have sprung from Bekto, Zuxa, and Lazsia. It's time to correct that oversight.
“High Priestess, are you alright?” asks my scribe, walking beside my litter.
I blank my face. “Of course.” Perhaps my genuine enthusiasm shone through a little too obvious.
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.
