We reach the makeshift camp and in the light of day, a slain corpse, bedrolls strewn about and a cold campfire doesn’t suggest the temporary abode of a great Lord Hob.
“Milga Stone Blood, given you slew my cook you can bury her and then prepare the middle of the day meal.”
“Yes, Lord Klug.”
“Koria scout East.” I point towards the still rising sun. “Hunt and return with something to eat.”
“Yes, Lord Hob.”
“Luda, to me.”
Koria pauses in her preparations casting me a look. I wave her off.
“Lord Hob?”
“Your father has accepted your fate. Did he explain this to you?”
“Yes, Lord Hob, when we are away from the river all temptation will be removed, I am certain.”
“Scout the perimeter of the camp.” I wave her away, she briefly joins her sister, placing a hand upon the other’s shoulder before leaving.
“Zeb Stone Grim assist Milga Stone Blood to dig the grave, mutual company will perhaps ease your seeding duty later.”
He nods and walks towards the diggings.
“Lord Hob, what can I do?” asks Duzsia an unmistakable eagerness in her voice.
“Pack up the camp except for one bedroll and some utensils to cook and eat our next meal and then grab your weapons, you can be my bodyguard for the day.”
She catches sight of Dega’s body. “Didn’t your last bodyguard die with two arrows in her back?”
“You will be the daytime bodyguard, completely different and I can assure you I haven’t lost one of them as yet.”
She nods slowly, I sense some doubt, so wave her off with a smirk.
Left alone I return to my own thoughts. Back to the farm by dusk, ensure the sow is settled and plan for more to be captured when hunting boar. Meat and furs from the boars, which should help feed everyone up until the crop is harvested, although I still need a bean crop of some type for the fallow field, so perhaps searching for that is next. And if I am searching anyway, several beehives wouldn’t go astray, honey for mead and bees for crop pollination. Perhaps I need to swap them around, prioritise.
My bodyguard is busy around the camp, her tight leather pants, the leg bottoms tucked into the tops of shin high leather boots alluring when she bends over … I curse under my breath, shaking my head and making the effort to look elsewhere spotting Koria returning. There isn’t any elegant grace in the walk of a goblin, yet she strides towards me exuding confidence, her leather jacket or shirt a perfect fit … I imagine her trapped smallish breasts … my loins stir. I briefly close my eyes and fill my mind with imagines of the Hunter Hob and Smith Hob and wonder why they aren’t busy responding to their urges. Do they have urges?
I reason there is a control in place upon the planet, the Hobgoblins have specific roles, and they exercise them, no more and no less. If all the Hobgoblins bred with the goblins, then perhaps with childbirth mortality rates the depopulation would reach some critical point, yet with only one Hobgoblin ‘farming’ means a slowing of that … not a prevention or curative, at best a play for time. Manipulation of planet development, a game the GPA likes to play, could this be them behind the scenes? Assume goblins are the primitive natives of the planet, going nowhere, doing nothing great except living their simple, although happy lives. Ignorance is bliss sometimes.
You introduce a bigger race, in this case Hobgoblin and yet you forget to include females? The flesh bags the GPA prepares, except for human replicas are sterile, as an agent I know this to be true. The Hobgoblin as a race would leverage the goblin DNA and be grown in a vat. The next step would be to inject a spirit into the flesh bag … which race would despise goblins more than any other once granted lordship over them? I suspect goblins. Using goblins though has stifled development, they are or were more interested in ruling as dictators instead of developing, hence the need for my arrival. Then again, my ruminations could all be a giant pile of crap …
“Lord Hob?”
Koria stands before me, a hand on a hip and … and is her leather jacket not laced as high as yesterday?
“Yes?”
“The meal is ready.”
The sweet aroma of rabbit sizzling over the campfire invades my nostrils and instantly my mouth waters. I nod and make my way over to the campfire, struggling, trying to extinguish my curiosity about Koria’s modest breasts. Milga hands me a piece of rabbit which I accept and chew. After all, they would be small flesh mounds on well-developed pectoral muscles, would they not, underdeveloped nipples, human male like?
“Lord Hob?”
“Lord Hob!”
I focus my eyes and stare downwards meeting Koria’s. “Yes Koria?”
“Your meal is going cold in your hands and we are ready to leave.”
I survey around me and all is as she says, bedrolls and backpacks on backs, bows to hand, quivers, and knives set. The portion of rabbit in my hand I throw onto the dirt smothering the last heat of the campfire and stride off towards the East. I hurry, in part from need but mostly due to an inner embarrassment. Do I blame this corpse I am walking in for these stray thoughts and feelings? The nanorobots?
---
The light forest West of the farm doesn’t conceal the buildings from the primitive goblins, which I realise are all of them, as they start chatting a long way out. They are more substantial given the log walls, yet the construction skill required for the farm buildings isn’t a huge leap forward compared to the tribal huts.
Goblin children playing on the forest edge fall silent as we approach and as they spot me, yipping and cheering spreads amongst them like wildfire. Half bolt, running back towards the farm while the other half, with sheepish looks and tentative steps approach me. I am known to them yet have never met any of them, skinny, naked with a generous covering of dirt they don’t present a great advertisement for civilisation when compared to the well cared for young and adolescents I briefly spied upon in the Hunter’s village.
I shoo them away. “Go back to your play.”
Most do and those who don’t just stare as we pass them by. There is a huge range of age between youngest and oldest and only one or two of similar size, which I assume roughly equates to age given their poor diet. If these children are the total of the next few generations, there is not going to be enough adults at some point ... another problem which will darken the more I ignore it. Back in the days before space travel the easiest way to fill a gap in population, usually able-bodied men, was to steal them or entice them. Perhaps I need to search other valleys for starving civilised goblins, kidnapping primitives may result in reprisals as I doubt all we encounter will conveniently fear to cross a river.
“The young are the future Lord Hob, these goblins are little better than vermin,” speaks Zeb Stone Grim, his voice lacking any emotion, plain grim fact.
I halt. “Perhaps a strong lead from yourself is required?”
He hurries to join my side. “You jest?”
Placing a hand on each of his shoulders I reply, “I don’t jest. If you want the task it is yours.”
“You accept I will guide them in the ways I know, which may not be yours?”
I remove my hands and continue our march towards the farm. “They are as you say vermin, anything more is better so I will announce you Master of Children, do you accept?”
“Yes, Lord Hob, girls and boys to teach the lessons of life and survival, I accept with all my heart.”
Koria and Luda laugh and slap their father’s back. Luda the first to speak, “You won’t forget your daughters will you father?”
I glance back to see their father wrap an arm around each of their shoulders. “You brats have already stopped listening to the wisdom of your father yet be assured I will never forget you or fail to love you to my dying day.”
While doubting they will admit to anything both Milga Stone Blood and Duzsia pay a great deal of attention to the family antics of Zeb and his daughters. Milga I suspect confirming her choice of father to her future daughter, while Duzsia wishing Zeb could be her father.
Not much further on and several blinks of firelight break through between multitudes of goblin shapes dancing and jumping in a circle oblivious to our approach. Who did the children tell of our arrival? Almost to the back of the crowd I recognise the cauldron against the night sky, stacks of wood blazing beneath.
A procession winds its way towards the cauldron from the direction of the farm proper. The excitement of those circling the cauldron reaches a frenzy almost drowning out the approaching squealing pig like sounds.
“Ready your bows,” I whisper to those behind and beside me.
Zata and Kexo, smile and wave while others follow, ropes around the sow’s neck leading her to the ‘pot’.
“Milga the goblin on the left, Koria the goblin on the right, in the heart, steady and release.”
The strain on the bows reaches my ears and then whoosh and thunk, Zata and Kexo flip back from the force and crash down prone, arrows sprouting from their chests. Goblins wave their arms, bolt, and scream in most directions although the majority favour the most direct route to their houses. As the crowd clears four male goblins, who I don’t recognise maintain enough of their wits to keep hold of their ropes. The sow is silent while the wood around the cauldron crackles and the water within the cauldron bubbles away. Several thrown down torches remain lit casting patches of waving light in the night dark, although the fire under cauldron dominates now.
Reaching the four, enough firelight touches them to reveal shaking arms and legs and eyes wide with fear.
“Where are you taking my sow?”
I wait long enough and then stab the lead goblin in the chest, plunging my stone flint knife deep, withdrawing with a twist. The eyes of the remaining three follow his fall to the ground.
“Where are you taking my sow?”
They answer all at once and I hold up a hand and point to the remaining lead goblin.
“Lord Hob we …” He eyes dart towards the bodies of Zata and Kexo and return to mine. “Your wives decided upon a feast, a few disagreed, many didn’t, some like us did what we were told …”
“Return my sow to her pen, she does have a pen?”
Bopping he replies, “Yes, Lord Hob the builders quick to finish they were.”
As they wrangle the sow to leave, I ask three more questions. “Where is Jora, the village females and my Ten Spears?”
He swallows, the flicking torchlight enough to catch the tell. “Lord Hob they left the farm shortly after arriving to hunt.”
“And Jora?” I doubt she would ever go hunting.
“She is in the silo … with the few who disagreed.”
“The other two can lead the sow to her pen and stay on as guards, you can lead me to the silo. Zeb, Koria and Luda keep an eye out and your bows ready. Duzsia walk in my footsteps, Milga Stone Blood at my side, bow ready.”
“Lord it is night, I am the daylight bodyguard am I not?”
“Consider this a promotion, dear Duzsia.”
“Lord Hob …” There is a whine in her voice and yet from behind, her hands rest on my hips as we move once again, following our guide.
Upon reaching the silo I discover the lock is a huge stone resting in front of the door. Bending my knees, my arms are long enough or the rock small enough for me to gain a grip. My thighs bulge as I heave the rock aside. The eyes of our guide nearly pop out of his head and under my gaze he drops to his knees. I take in several deep breaths and then flick up the cross beam baring the door. The door falls open, Jora’s limp body spilling out, which I catch. One of my companions lifts a torch and flickering light reveals several lifeless goblin bodies lying upon the remaining store of grain.
“Rouse those hiding, some to fetch water others to run here to help. Remember the faces of any who ignore your call, I will deal with them after. Now go!”
I hear the pitta patter of his feet as he runs off as I pass Jora’s body back to Duzsia, “Water for her.” Looking in the doorway, it is too narrow for me and pushing off the sides of the silo I decide we can’t wait for help.
“Koria and Luda inside and pass out the bodies. Zeb at the doorway to take them. Duzsia gather our waterskins and offer them water, those who aren’t responding drop water into their mouths. Milga Stone Blood with me and bring an extra quiver of arrows.”
Torch in hand I make for my cabin first. The bar is across the door, which I lift and place to one side. Pushing the door open I wave the torch in the room. At a glance everything seems to remain in place. I withdraw and bar the door once again. Next is the kitchen and the door is wide open, a coppery smell assaults my nose as I enter leading with the torch. There are at least three shoat heads and endless entrails, red blood painting the floor and I don’t step any further inside, retreating in fact, my open hand slapping the door on my way out.
Passing within sight of the cauldron on my way to the barrack houses several goblins are throwing lumps of something onto the fire. I turn away from the barracks and stride directly to the cauldron. One looks and taps the shoulder of another, they stare at each other for a moment.
“Stay there,” I shout.
They do the exact opposite of course. “Wound if you can, kill otherwise.” An arrow whooshes past my ear and the furthest goblin takes a tumble. The next slows and swivels about, hands out front, palms up. Two more make a break from the blind side of the cauldron. Both take arrows to the head.
I turn to Milga, raising my eyebrows.
She replies, “Only one is needed to tell their story and you know they can’t live beyond this night otherwise why ask me to bring an extra quiver of arrows.”
She has me there …
By the time we reach him the remaining goblin is snivelling and on his knees. The roasting smell of pork surrounds us causing my mouth to water despite myself and the situation.
“You are cooking what doesn’t belong to you.”
“You can’t kill me, you shouldn’t have killed them, we are servants of the Great Head Hob charged with bringing him an offering of meat. We are guests of your wives!” He screams the last sentence as if somehow this will make all the difference.
“Does your Great Head Hob allow you to barter off any of his pottery?”
His head lolls to one side as he waves his hands about, I assume trying to grasp for a clever response.
“Exactly,” I reply before he can lie, following through with a sweeping arc of my knife taking off his head.
“Have you released your anger now, Lord Klug?”
“Possibly.” I lean down and wipe my knife on the grass at my feet. His clothes are valuable I decide as are those worn by his dead companions.
Milga hands me a burnt chunk of pork. I hesitate and she forces the offer, which I take and chew into.
“We have another piece each to eat if you are still hungry, a hunt always makes me hungry …”
The way her eyes catch the firelight in that moment, I assume she means food hunger, not the other although not entirely certain as she smiles at my doubt. I call her to follow me to break the moment. Next destination the barracks.
We arrive as my messenger is about to knock on the final door in the long row of house barracks. He doesn’t notice our approach and I place a hand upon Milga’s shoulder to hold her beside me.
“The Lord Hob orders all to the silo to rescue those imprisoned there,” he says.
A shout comes from within. “Who are you to order us about in his name, we have already been told lies by his wives. We stay here and wait until morning.”
“Lord Hob offers death to all who don’t heed my call.”
We hear a prelude of mumbling and an odd shout before a definite reply, “Would he slay his own child we raise on his behalf? I don’t believe so, but I will come while my wife stays.”
The door of the cottage opens, and a long eared, short nosed goblin sticks his head out. A moment later he exits and someone else closes the door behind him. My messenger and the new helper approach Milga and I initially without noticing and then jump when I wave my torch to get their attention.
My messenger hurries to present himself before me, dropping to one knee. “Lord Hob, I have asked at every door, those who have ignored me I have cursed them in your name and blacken their door with my torch.”
“Thank-you for your service, join the others at the silo and do what you can to help.”
As we pass, the new helper nods and slinks off to stand nearer to my messenger. Neither move though until we pass the last cottage. Approaching each cottage, knocking, and refusing to answer questions about who is visiting results in most doors opening eventually, curiosity the key. I then enter, bar the door and slam a knife into the stout wood above the bar to prevent lifting. I perform most of the executions by strangulation, all males and females if present. The first cottage containing a child I baulk. This is my humanity questioning my actions. Can I blame a child for the parent’s betrayal? I order the child to approach me and then tell them to find Zeb, Master of Children as he will be taking care of them from now on. Those who don’t open their doors usually require me to batter them down and use my knife, their resistance resulting in blood being spilt. The sole exception, if only one or two are inside as the cottages are small and my arms long.
I must carry out my threats, anything less and there will always be schemers and malcontents springing up when I least need them. These are the types who, when I am weak due to other causes or plain misfortune will act in the exact moment when I need the opposite, reliable help. Some plead well for their lives, yet I can’t allow exceptions and need to accept some of the slain were more innocent than guilty and still paid in full with their lives.
When I stagger out of the last cottage, this one bloody, there is a huge bonfire on the bank of the nearby river and Milga exits a cottage I have previously visited, dragging one of the slain in the direction of the bonfire. She is cleaning up under the cover of night, for me. I re-enter the last cottage and go to work, cleaning up my own mess.
---
The last corpse is thrown on the bonfire and Milga turns to me, silent until to this moment and asks, “Have you released your anger now, Lord Klug?”
My tired eyes rest upon her. “I believe so.” I knew very few of the slain, no names, some faces possibly, except you know, I can’t be sure as they still all look the same and I can only assume this anonymity eased the task as I feel little remorse or perhaps this is a Hobgoblin thing. The Head Hob will be my gauge in this, will he or won’t he require some form of payment for his emissaries?
“Good!” She stares at me then shakes her head. “You need to visit the silo …”
“Yes, of course.”
With heavy steps I allow Milga to lead the way.
