Several shouts erupt from the former captives trying to encourage a rescue. Duzsia waves them down with her hands and grimacing face.

“How many know the forest hereabouts or further East?” she asks with a hint of impatience.

They look about and at each other, none answer.

“How many know how to handle a spear or possibly a bow?”

Again, they look about and their faces cloud over.

She slaps my shoulder. “Your eyes tell me you want to rescue them, am I wrong?”

“No,” I admit. “Although we don’t have the numbers or the weapons …”

She smiles. One that sends a shiver down my spine. Duzsia moves with purpose, mind, and body …

“You! Silent one, who are you?” She points at Karo who for a spy either acts well or is on the verge of peeing herself.

“K … Karo, sister-wife …” Karo bends at the knee, bowing her head also.

“Another one, will our Lord Hob never rest his loins. What are your skills, what glory do you gift him?”

“Acting, writing … s … spy.”

Duzsia stalks Karo, examining her from every angle and I notice Karo visibly clench her nether regions.

“Weapon skills?”

“N … none, sister-wife, perhaps knife if desperate.”

“Ligia?”

“Bow, enough not to injury myself sister-wife.”

“Zoria?”

“Long knives, some bow.”

“Alright enough talk, release his legs, double the leads around his neck and he can walk like the rest of us. We head into the Sun and then North.”

She jogs off waiting for none. In ones and twos, I, and the rest follow. Her pace pushes us and yet I am certain this is nothing for her, she is the wind. We break for a middle of the day meal and all except Duzsia are taking deep breaths and in between sipping water, chewing on dry meat. She sprints off promising to return and when she does, she says we will head North back towards the river.

---

By mid-afternoon, we cross a trail and follow, able to pick up our pace now without having to dodge low branches and swerve around bush and tree trunks. Late afternoon a burnt-out village comes into view down the trail. The river bubbles and gurgles beyond.

We crouch upon Duzsia’ signal. “The Matriarch’s camp, if still there is less than half a day West. Meb would have all his tribe across the river and probably heading South. The middle lands of the Blood Suns were empty of villages is my understanding, but Meb would want his main village in the centre of his new lands so he could reach each corner equally.”

“Would he leave a small force to wait for the tribute or perhaps march towards them?” I offer.

“I think they are still getting over Blood Suns mead and most likely waiting, but this is all a guess.” She stares through me, and I can’t prevent the shiver from rolling down my spine. “Scout the West side of the village and venture a little way down the trail. I will do the same to the East. Ligia and Karo wait until you see us both clear the middle of the village and then follow with everybody else. I need everyone to search the village, stomp on floors for underground caches, look in and under firepits, every place you can think of. None should return clean as true searching is dirty work.”

Her last sentence a clear warning … then we set off at a low crouch until the first cottage, not in the village proper and still surrounded by bush berries, although they form rows like a farmer would do. Did the drunks begin to develop farming? From there Duzsia sprints to a Western cottage, while I do the same to an Eastern one. We dash from cottage to cottage, all burnt-out until we reach the bank of the river. Satisfied we then head East and West. There are no bodies and no pyres as if the villagers simply walked away, except we know that didn’t happen. Being on the river this village would have met a full force of fresh attackers. Fresh grass grows, the only trampling, running through the middle of the village, I assume from the Matriarch’s camp passing through.

Before dusk, Duzsia is yet to return while before me the pile of useless and not so useless items increasing because of the thorough search by the former captives given Duzsia’s inspiring words. I start picking out serviceable weapons, mainly an axe or club arrangement, depending upon the stone type, axe if flint, club if other types of stone.

Duzsia charges through the village calling those still searching, to her as she pulls up near the pile of treasures. She is catching her breath as all gather around her. So, she is at least part goblin then …

“Who are you and why did the Matriarch hold you, prisoner?”

A male steps forward. “We are or were sons and daughters of the Head Goblin of our villages. When the Grim Weavers came upon a village, they would surround it at dawn and then offer terms in exchange for hostages. We are from four villages in the far Southeast almost on the border of the Grim Weavers land. A few escaped to warn others of this tactic and given none have been added since I suspect the warning worked. Why do you ask?”

“The villagers marching this way aren’t bound, their guards look more like a watch, to protect them. These villagers welcome their destiny it seems …” says Duzsia between breaths.

“They must have decided fealty to Meb was better than any other option and the tithe to one leader is the same as any another, a village must pay someone for peace. Perhaps Meb will settle them in their original village although, maybe they are from our village?” I offer.

They chatter amongst themselves excitement in their voices, ignoring us. Duzsia draws us away.

“We may be better served by just leaving them here.” Duzsia looks at me. “Sorry Zoria, I know you wish to lead them to Lord Hob but if the captives are unwilling to be freed, we don’t have much choice.”

I nod, needing to accept the truth. “What do we do about the Matriarch’s son?”

“Leave him as well.” She smiles. “I am certain Lord Hob would be able to take advantage of him as a prisoner but how is beyond me. The Matriarch will know who took him and may try to seek revenge, but I think that a minor affront compared to the attempt on Lord Hob’s life.”

“We go?” I ask.

“Yes. I will break the happy theory and news to the former captives …”

We escort Duzsia and her presence alone quells the chat.

“I believe some, if not all of you will find your parents or friends in the village group, which will be in the village shortly. Therefore, we will go our own way. If you ever find your new home a burden, you are more than welcome to live on the Farm.”

They hold their voices until we are on the edge of the village. Cheering erupts … is this because we have now left or because they are soon to be reunited?

We travel for a way down the trail and then backtrack through the forest to wait, Duzsia scans the village intently.

At dusk the villagers approach the village, the guards don’t scout ahead, simply walk in with them. The captives amble up the trail to meet them and as the distance closes, recognition dawns on most villagers. Male and females break from the villager group and sprint to hug and kiss some of the captives. The remaining captives stretch tall on their toes, peer into the villager group and after a time simply gather away from the celebration accepting an unknown future. One glances towards the trail …

Duzsia slinks back into the forest proper, I, Ligia and Karo follow her silent lead. Once undercover I realise we are further East.

“Why East,” I blurt out.

Ligia replies, “Duzsia is fourth wife, that is reason enough.”

Duzsia for her part continues leading us towards the tribal lands of the Grim Weavers, while I and the other two take turns to sweep away our tracks. Upon dusk, she orders us to eat dried meat from our packs and then near a fallen giant of a tree finds severe undergrowth to hide in. Ligia leads the way and lays beside her, almost nestling in as a child to a mother. Karo hesitates for a moment until Ligia points to Duzsia’s other side and she takes up her position. I crawl to one side, beat back the undergrowth there and settle in for the night, alone once again, envious of their strange arrangement. Karo especially confuses me, she accepts her position … the last wife, the lowest of the low regardless of skills. Why? How can a wife be promoted I wonder?

---

I slap my neck and between my fingers, a squish oozes while the sting I feel is fresh. Opening my eyes and several bugs, green, finger long, six legs surround me. I throw the reminds of my kill aside and draw my boots to me. A glance to one side tells me the three wives woke earlier and left. The bugs now march as one towards me. Worse others rush to join them weaving their way through the undergrowth spewing from deep within the undergrowth. Perching amongst the tangle of branches I spy an unnatural conglomeration of leaves and twigs. The surface moves …

I can stomp upon them, yet I know this is my end. A painful death for sure, their body fluid stings and the thought of multiple stings horrific. I wonder if death by bee sting better or worse. The undergrowth lights up! No, not all, the flames take hold of the conglomeration. The bugs around me dash off towards certain death, to be consumed in the flames I fervently hope.

My arm is pulled almost from its socket, and I look upon Duzsia who releases her grip, only to grab at my armour. Her hand grasps the top of the breastplate and her fingers burrow on the inside, grazing one breast. Before I can complain I am out of the undergrowth and running behind her. Ligia and Karo join us, black angry welts on most of their exposed flesh. A roar of clicking rises behind us. I don’t need to look, instead, hastening until I am on Duzsia’s heels.

“Wade into the water, the current may dissuade them,” yells Ligia.

We dash over a game trail, which I suspect doubles as a pathway and then through the bush. We are in flowing water up to our breasts before turning around.

The bugs pile upon each other trying to reach for us. As I study them, I realise they don’t leap and jump about, they build. First, they connect to each other and form a blanket, two-thirds of the way across the current breaks them apart.

“Green ants are smart devious creatures, sisters, we need to cross the river,” yells Ligia.

As if on cue the ants pile up until they form a solid base and then linking together, they reach across above the rushing water, five deep becomes four deep becomes three deep …

“Wade upstream now,” screams Duzsia.

I hasten to agree, downstream will carry us closer to the Grim Weavers, upstream will deliver us closer to the abandoned village and possibly a fording point. The ants meanwhile swarm along the shoreline keeping up with us at first and then streaming ahead.

“Faster,” urges Duzsia and she wades closer to the shore, sacrificing depth for haste. Ligia falls in behind her immediately and then with great effort Karo does the same. I fall into line last. I can hear our deep breathing over the slushing of the river water, straining to keep pace with Duzsia. The green ants congregate opposite us upon the shore and try to launch the blanket tactic at us and they do succeed yet complete their masterpiece too late.

Before us, a ramp of ants is set. The arch far enough into the river we would need to be who knows how deep in the water to avoid them falling upon us. Duzsia pauses.

“Reach down and gather stones.”

As we do, the ants launch another blanket towards us. Duzsia surges ahead, angling towards the shoreline.

“Throw your stones at the base, we need to drop as many as we can in the water. When I wade ashore follow me.”

I gulp. What tactic is this? Looking upon the shore, midway between the arch and the blanket and the numbers are few, the constructions taking up any strays. Hope rises in my throat, my heart beats faster.

Duzsia throws her rocks at the base of the arch, then Ligia, Karo and I follow. The ants scramble and commit more to hold onto the base and yet the construct falls, hundreds of ants now float towards us, the floating blanket grows organically towards us against the current. I am eager to bolt and yet Duzsia holds her position, reaching for more rocks, throwing them.

“Now,” she shouts. Her legs drive through the flowing water, Ligia, Karo and me follow although the angle of travel allows the water to smash into us. Then Duzsia lifts her legs high, and we all do the same. Once upon the shore, we bolt inland finding the game trail shortly after. The ants still upon the shore and able, follow, although the number few.

My lungs heave trying to drag in more air, my legs burn when the outline of the abandoned village draws into view. The blood throbbing inside my head steals my ability to listen yet I am certain the ants still follow because none of my companions slow or look back.

As we reach the village centre, Duzsia halts to look back and we follow her gaze. The wild fields undulate near the trail. I look up the trail and tap Duzsia on her shoulder. She looks in the direction I point.

I expect fear or confusion, instead, she places both of her hands upon my shoulders and chuckles! She holds her spear up on high and then yells towards the Grim Weaver column.

“Your Matriarch is a betraying disloyal bitch on heat. My Lord’s child she carries will realise this and when old slay her!”

The effect is immediate – they charge! I know my eyes open wide, yet I am too out of breath to curse her or bemoan our fate. Either death by spear or death by a thousand stings.

“Time to leave them to each other,” Duzsia utters, before jogging towards the Grim Weaver spear carriers. As the first wave of arrows release, Duzsia breaks our jog into a run towards the river. We dash between two posts and crash into the swift-flowing river. Underfoot the stones and sand move about, and I stagger.

An arm is around my chest, and I regain my balance. Duzsia’s other arm envelopes a lagging Karo.

“Karo grab your sister-wife.” Karo’s arm draws Ligia to her. The four of us in a line cross the ford, eight legs steady us, allowing two or three to stumble without effect and Duzsia, the tireless and relentless fourth wife of Lord Hob is our pillar of strength. We reach the opposing bank, dashing through a duplicate set of dual posts and drop.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and follow the pointing finger. The ants swarm over the opposing posts, some head our way but are soon swept downstream as they are not enough to form a blanket. Most of the ants have found new flesh to torment as screams rise in volume from across the river.

Grim Weavers dive into the river. Many run back from whence they came, others I suppose run deeper into the forest. A shadow casts over me. The sun is in the West, early afternoon. Duzsia has an arrow nocked.

“Karo scout inland a short distance, quiet-like. I believe Sharp Fangs are soon to invade where we now stand, and a warning would be appreciated. Especially with the screaming across the river drawing everything and everyone within earshot. And leave your quiver of arrows please.”

“Yes, sister-wife.”

Then a twang. The first Grim Weaver to reach the ford falls clutching an arrow through his neck.

“Ligia, archery practice.”

“Yes, sister-wife.”

“Zoria, prepare your knives, you will slay any who come ashore, no mercy. You understand?”

“Yes,” I reply, needing to catch myself from saying sister-wife. I catch a playful smirk on Duzsia’s lips, she heard my word stumble. I drop my quiver of arrows beside Duzsia and unsheathe my knives. Stepping forward I take up a stance between the two posts and witness the slaughter. The ant blanket catches those who can’t launch themselves far enough into the river. Those that can flail about and when they scramble to the ford they rest to recuperate and then fall with an arrow to either the leg or neck, some their armour protects, and they choose to leap into the river past the ford to continue their flailing.

A circle of fire rises on the opposite bank, thwarting a countless number of ants.

“We have stirred the ants to horrible anger. Our firing of the nest must have contained the high queen and she has called her daughters and their nests … I have never seen so many, the ground moves …” murmurs Ligia.

“The circle of fire moves towards the village.” I know I state the obvious, yet this group of Grim Weavers alone seem to have managed a respite.

The few archers within the circle begin to release flaming arrows and fire the huts and cottages or at least their ruins. This scatters the ants in or nearby and the circle keeps side walking along the riverbank.

“Do they think they can reach the ford?” I ask no one.

Yet before my eyes, they make steady progress, stealing burning logs and roof tiles from the cottages they pass to keep their circle alight. The circle shrinking as they progress until they are before the posts of the ford. Their fire pushing the blanket of ants away. The circle is now a semicircle, with five keeping the fire alive. Three Grim Weavers charge across the ford.

“Hold,” commands Duzsia. “We have guests arriving soon.”

One stumbles, the two others remain. The five tending the fire pick their moment, throwing what is probably the last of their wood and whatnot on the fire and bolting across the ford.

“Ligia, release at the five and only at the five.”

“Yes, sister-wife.”

“Zoria, prepare to take captives.”

I nod, without looking because my jaw is wide open. I recognise the two wading the ford towards us. The female leaning heavily upon the younger male. Once across they drop to their knees, and I am at a loss with what to do with them.

A noose drops around the Matriarch’s neck, shortly after another noose drops around her son’s.

“Rise Matriarch, we must be away,” states Duzsia while pointing towards the ford.

“That is impossible,” says Ligia.

The Matriarch and her son stumble to their feet, eyes wide at the blanket of ants building out across the river.

“Tie their hands.”

Somehow, I sense the order is mine to perform and jump into action.

“Ligia, find Karo, call out in a quiet voice. Now go, we will stick to the riverbank heading West into the sun.”

“Yes, sister-wife.”

I feel the Matriarch’s body twitch and if she could spare the breath and draw strength from her exhausted body, I sense she would spit some venomous words instead of gasps of silence.

We are not too far West of the ford when Ligia and Karo join us, sprinting to catch up.

Sucking in a breath, Ligia gasps, “The Sharp Fangs are converging on the ford, probably to investigate the screams.”

“Did they see you sister-wife?” asks Duzsia.

“No,” answers Karo, recovering. “I was sneaking back when Ligia and I met.”

“Zoria, if you were the Chief of the Sharp Fangs approaching a ford, facing an invasion of green ants, what would you do?”

“Fire to fend them off. Search upriver and downriver for survivors to find out what enraged them …”

The Matriarch stumbles forward. I second look, Duzsia must have pulled upon her noose.

“We must be hasty. While I would like to present you to Lord Hob alive, I am certain he would understand if given a choice between escape or capture he would allow me your death to ensure our freedom.”

The Matriarch straightens as best she can. “Ask what you want, and I will see you have it in exchange for my freedom, I swear.”

“My Lord’s love and trust.”

The Matriarch gulps.

Without further conversation, we jog towards the setting sun.

---

Before dusk, we ford a tributary flowing northeast from the river. This stream will eventually lead to the Farm, we are close. Northwest between the two hills off in the distance is the wooden road and I can’t understand why Duzsia has ordered her sister-wives to set up camp and watch the captives. Once the captives are secure and preparations underway Duzsia says she will return shortly.

I follow her, fully aware I must take my time and proceed with extreme caution. Initially, she heads East and then for some reason, feeling safe perhaps, heads South, towards the stream although a safe distance from the camp.

I catch her, nude, wading into the stream. Her back draws my full attention. Black venom burns stare back at me and then she submerges her body up to her ears into the stream. An audible sigh reaches my ears, and I can understand why. A couple of spot burns annoying enough for me, the river water washing the venom away after our first plunge. Why couldn’t she do the same? Then I recall how she led and shielded her sister-wives and me for that matter. A simple wash wouldn’t be enough, probably reaching for rocks to throw the only time she felt any relief.

“You may as well join me.”

Her words run through me, and I almost lose my water. Against my will, I walk towards her, nerves on edge wondering about my fate. I am not a sister-wife, in fact, I am spirit lost and rejected by her Lord Hob and now I am caught like a green youngling, spying.

“I don’t hear you dropping your armour?”

I pause before my first step into the water and retreat a couple of steps and begin removing my armour. She is content to wait and allow the current of the water to wash against her back. Peering into the light forest about me, I realise the time of modesty is well lost and take the plunge into the stream.

“Why did you follow me?” she asks.

“I, d … don’t know,” I stammer. Why am I nervous?

She turns to face me. “Don’t you know curiosity kills the nosy goblin?”

“No, um, I have never heard of that saying.” I can’t remove the nervous tone from my voice.

She smiles as if about to devour me. “Lord Hob once said, ‘curiosity kills the cat’, but his wives didn’t understand so he changed the creature called a cat to a nosy goblin. So much more direct I think.”

Her hands are about my neck before I sense them, my mind still trying to comprehend what a cat is and how nosy goblin is the perfect substitute. My immediate reaction is to kick away.

“Stop that now!” Her fingers tighten around my throat and a memory of limp legs comes flashing back to me. She is just like him!

“Better. You wouldn’t want to be the cause of losing my Lord’s child, would you?”

Pregnant! So is Ligia and the Matriarch for that matter and they all are beginning to show. How could I be so foolish, poking a pregnant goblin! I can only await my fate. She and Ligia ran pregnant … more Duzsia led pregnant, never wavering, resolute and relentless. Even now she is determined and in control.

“Who do you spy for?” Our noses are a hand width apart by the end of the question.

“No, no one. I wish to belong, be a sister wife, yet I know the Lord doesn’t trust me and I am at a loss to prove otherwise. I see Karo accepted so easily. I don’t understand.”

She chuckles and releases me. I immediately suck in a deep breath.

“I was once where you are now. I didn’t know want I wanted. Lord Hob humoured me. You know I was his night bodyguard and then he promoted me to, day bodyguard?”

“Um, what does that even mean?” I ask.

“Exactly! Nothing, everything? Koria and Luda you see were my role models yet with their loving family and me alone how could I try to live their lives. Even when Koria and I hunted for the Lord’s ransom I deferred to her. My first kill she witnessed yet with a bow. I am jealous of you, your knives. You need to be close to slay. That sort of killing changed me …”

For the first time, I inspect Duzsia’s body, taller, lithe, inner strength and probably the starkest change, cold emotionless death in her eyes. The Grim Weavers at the ford the most recent to benefit, no mercy.

Suddenly I realise I am on the shore … she took a step forward and I retreated a step without being aware, listening to her words and examining her. What is that? And that? My eyes crane up.

“You may hear a rumour,” she says. “This is your chance to keep a secret, call this a test if you want, perhaps even an audition.”

“An audition?” I gulp.

“Do you believe a supportive word from me would help allay the Lord Hob’s suspicions about you?”

My eyes moisten, my body betrays my deepest desire by trembling … is this possible?

“Good,” she says. “Examine my scars and tell me what caused them.”

“Is this part of the audition?”

“Not really, but if you are accurate, I will tell you the truth and keeping the truth secret is your audition.” Her eyes twinkle around the deep empty death within.

“The thigh, upper leg wound is from a knife, probably flint, which went deep but not through, dragging down instead, which is why it wasn’t done by spear or sword.” I drop to the ground and run my hand over the foot wound and trace it to the underside, the strike sliced through the foot. How is she able to walk, let alone run? “A knife, the Lord’s ransom, the cut is thin from an extremely sharp narrow blade, most flint knives widen away from the cutting edge to provide strength, to prevent snapping or shattering.”

I climb to my feet wiping river pebbles from my knees.

“Very good. I took those wounds while defeating Chief OuzOuz the Blooddrinker and his two bodyguards to recover my Lord’s ransom.” From amongst her armour, she reaches for and flashes the bronze knife as final proof and I stand speechless and unable to move.

“You need to get dressed. We have to return.”

After a time, I turn my head to face her. She is sheathing her weapons and I look down and find myself still standing naked.