Her flesh feels so real upon my face … my dream indulges my lust; all my wives are in attendance …

“Lord!”

“Mm … yeah,” I slur, lust thick upon my tongue.

“Lord?”

Why would a wife question their Lord? This is my dream … I blink and the dark of night surrounds me.

“Lord Hob, we have a visitor,” Duzsia says, her high voice now able to penetrate my dream haze.

I jump to my feet and look about. The slapping of my spear into one of my hands an opportune delay as I look about. A gaggle of goblins assemble near the dying embers of the campfire, at their feet another goblin, slumping forward on their knees.

As I approach in my loin cloth, Redagar says, “She claims to be … another of your wives Lord so my crew thought best to bring her to you.”

The spoken word ‘Lord’ is a trigger, and the face of the kneeling goblin slowly cranes up until her eyes, staring out from a bloody face meets mine.

“Lord Hob,” she gasps.

Duzsia, damp cloth in hand, wipes black blood back. “Zoria, Lord,” she says.

I sigh, of course it’s her. “Food and water and after rest, I will chat with her in the morning.”

“Lord Hob …” Zoria pleads.

“A wife of mine would know her place and do as ordered …” To Duzsia I say, “Ensure any bandages are boiled in water and dried before use as is any water used to cleanse her wounds.”

“We know Lord Hob,” replies Duzsia, her words fading to a whisper.

I stride back to my bed of furs …

I overhear Redagar’s question. “She isn’t a wife of Lord Hob?”

“No. It is a different arrangement,” mumbles Duzsia.

I toss and turn until dawn, perhaps I should have asked Zoria questions last night … I didn’t want to hear the excuses, then the inevitable pleading during her tale of woe while half asleep or any time really. Of course, there is also the other nagging issue – how do I trust her? My capture of her spirit no guarantee, she is Tribal, yet I sense she doubts the mumbo jumbo, which is most unfortunate. I know for a fact she doesn’t return in triumph, otherwise the knife would have been offered up immediately, therefore nothing but bad news …

---

Breaking our fast, none wake Zoria, and I call Redagar to me. Predicting my need he brings another with him.

“This is Kexog Lord Hob. He led the work gang who captured your not-wife staggering towards one of the burning pits …”

“Welcome Kexog and tell me all you know.”

Wringing his hands, he begins. “After we start a burning, we keep an eye on the fire and relight in any places it seems to be dying.  I guess the light of the flames drew her to us … mumbling, we didn’t clearly hear her, Lord. We may have been a little too rough in our greeting, the crazy Blood Suns females you understand …” He darts a look towards Redagar and then at his nod continues. “One of us, heard the words Lord and wife and we got her here.”

I pelt my spent apple core into the fire instead of finishing the entire piece of fruit. Redagar, wiser than his escort takes a half a step back.

“Koria!” I hiss. “Is she still alive?” If what the Head Hob believes about goblin robustness is true, then I am certain she is … my feelings on the matter are mixed though and part of me hoped she didn’t live to see morning. She is a complication, trust, not trust and while I thought I could wring some value from her, I suspect overconfidence on my part. To survive wounding from others proves her physically tough while dragging herself towards an unknown light with the slim hope of rescue despite pain suggests a strength of will. I sigh, this all means she must be willing to speak, any attempt to coerce information from her a messy challenge at least …

“Yes, Lord. Duzsia and I have tended to her all night. She sleeps safe and sound.”

I nod. A gesture to delay and yet I must speak as Lord Hob. Zoria isn’t mine, yet she should expect assistance from any goblin who answers to me. I am trying to make allowance for Kexog’s thin excuse, trying to accept his story crazy female Blood Suns roam around at night, alone and are a threat to a work gang?

“Kexog, go!” I growl.

A brief pause and then Redagar shoots him a look. He sprints out of my sight.

“Tell Kexog to avoid my gaze for an exceptionally long time. I respect the task he and his work gang are doing, and I have given him the benefit of some doubt, yet I can’t except their treatment of one who was, is helpless … you understand this?” My eyes, full of askance fall upon Redagar.

“Yes, Lord of Goblins, if you can treat goblins kindly then goblins should be able to treat other goblins kindly.”

I muse over his reply in my head, trying to determine if he is just saying what he expects I want to hear or if he is genuine. I err on the side of genuine.

“Exactly.” Turning to Koria, I command, “Fetch Zoria, Duzsia can assist.”

Redagar begins to open his mouth, thinking again he holds back as my wives jump to do my bidding. I suspect Zoria still suffers, yet my wives will know if she is or isn’t fit enough to be woken and questioned.

Zoria staggers towards me, her arms pushing away offers of help from either of my wives, Redagar for his part withdraws his wide-eyed look.

“My appearance is much worse than it is Lord Hob.” She slips me a weak smile while the back of a hand brushes her forehead, a bandage weeping blood covers the wound, the other hand nursing her stomach, leather armour concealing bandaging, nothing hides the gash in the armour. Her forearms, show dark green splotches – bruising, defensive in nature so where else? The doubt I afforded Kexog seeming less earnt, my hand strangles the hilt of my sheathed dagger. My inner Hob urges for blood …

“Split scalp Lord, deep. Lower torso an existing wound healing and a recent wound,” adds Koria.

Zoria’s face twists and wilts, she would be screaming at Koria now except for her injuries. Head low, her eyes must spot my white-knuckle fist as her bottom lip trembles. I relax my grip.

“How did the ransom exchange go?” I ask, trying to grab her focus in case her misunderstanding suddenly ends our conversation.

Voice feeble and thin she says, “The ransom was honoured Lord Hob.” Her eyes remain downcast. “In exchange for her … um Zoga, the family gifted a small knife.”

I shake my head.

Her head snaps up, grimaces, eyes upon mine. “No Lord, the metal proven before my eyes to be stronger than copper, they called the metal bronze.” Her eyes leave mine finding refuge examining the wooden road at her feet.

“The knife no longer in your possession …?”

“No Lord.” She hitches her chest. A sniff. Silence.

Does she wait for me to slay her? Does she expect me to beat her?

Zoria’s eyes sneak a glance at me. Closing her eyes, she continues, “Once I left the pass, I felt eyes upon me … I can’t explain, instinct perhaps. In a desperate hurry to return to the Farm and close I choose speed over caution. A group of goblins crossed my path, both running we ended up on the ground and those of their group I didn’t knock down jumped on me. I slew one with the knife, which enraged another who stabbed me in the stomach. Trying to staunch the wound with one hand he wrestled the knife from my other.” She swallows and takes a deep breath. “Instead … instead of killing me he drew a cut across my forehead and then together they left as the howls of others following them grew louder. I crawled into nearby brush, but I shouldn’t have bothered as those following took another path to try and head off my attackers.”

I nod towards Koria who lifts a water skin to Zoria’s lips. She resists until Koria smiles, only choosing then to drink deep.

“Continue.”

Zoria winces and I almost suggest she rests until behind and out of Zoria’s direct sight Duzsia shakes her head.

“I bandaged as best I could the stomach wound, while I tried to wrap the head wound. I eat and drink wondering about what to do next. The Farm will be days away with my wounds and then I see the bonfire and during the night crawl and sometimes stumble towards my last hope.”

Redagar shifts in his sitting position, eyes fixed upon Zoria.

“Reaching them, it takes much effort to tell them I am one your wives Lord … although I know not the exact truth.” Her eyes drift up and then reconsider. “Yet wounded and given up for dead I didn’t know what else to say and shortly after they delivered me back to you.”

Koria steps forward disturbing my thoughts, saving me from saying something foolish or sympathetic or both.

“Lord we must hunt down the thieves and recover your knife, this slight cannot be allowed to stand!”

In my mind I am about to downplay the loss, bronze knife, yes significant but …

“Yes, Lord. Koria and I will hunt them down and slay their black hearts,” says Duzsia, a fist striking an open palm and then wrapping an arm around Koria.

“The thieves would be the last of any Blood Suns, Lord Hob. They would be desperate, your wives need to know they would offer them a desperate fight, no mercy …” offers Redagar.

“How many?” I ask Zoria.

Her eyes dart towards Koria and Duzsia and then back to me trying to stand tall and step forward until Koria’s hand presses on her shoulder. She doesn’t try to shrug, ribs in pain no doubt. After swearing she says, “No Lord I must recover the knife. I will heal quickly they were heading West and will soon be held up by the cliff. Those who followed would have the first opportunity and then I will swoop in and surprise both. I can do this Lord, my chance to prove myself …” Her voice full of desperate pleading and pain … clear to everyone her wounds too grievous. Neither of my wives speak against her, though. There is no need.

“Koria and Duzsia track back to where Zoria was wounded and then follow the runaways.”

They both beam back smiles, while Zoria rocks her head and groans in anguish.

“Redagar, send a work gang with them. I don’t expect the work gang to fight, but my wives will need the appearance of numbers and if the worst happens, I will value the news.”

He nods. His Lord Hob has spoken.

The faces of my wives don’t flinch, not expecting ‘the worst to happen’, confident or overconfident?

“We will not fail you Lord.” My wives speak as one and with that they scurry off to fetch their gear.

“Redagar, load my bedding into the wagon and then gently lift Zoria upon the furs, we leave as soon as we can break camp.”

Zoria tries protesting while Redagar hurries to do my bidding. I stand, stretch and two wives crash into my embrace. I kiss both on their foreheads. Redagar clears his throat, drawing my attention.

“Lord, I offer your wives this token, shown to any of the work gangs they will follow your orders. Ensure to tell them to take plenty of supplies otherwise they will simply drop tools and follow you …” He shrugs, passing them a wood carving.

“Good hunting,” I say as they turn away and sprint towards the fire pits.

They are goblins, I should feel nothing and yet a certain part of me worries for them … my eyes fix upon them as they diminish in the distance.

“I hope to be in your heart like them Lord …”

Zoria hopes and wishes, her small whisper sounding heartfelt. Yet, I don’t know everything of her journey, the time she spent, what promises were made to her … Once healed though she will have another opportunity to prove herself.

My wives are two small specks in the distance when Redagar calls to me. We are ready to continue our journey home.

---

“How did they go?”

Zeb, smirks, his hand reaching for his mouth then unable to resist bursts out laughing.

“Plenty of stings Lord, not enough smoke as you warned them. After a retreat though their second attempt more rewarding and once they learnt the technique the other five beehives were captured into the pots without as much fun.”

“Did they knock an opening in the bottom so the bees could fly in and out …”

“Yes, Lord and they are positioned around the crops as you instructed … will you reveal their purpose?”

My turn to smile and hold back a mystery. He shrugs. Acceptance. Worry works into his eyes as our discussion ends and him, like I wonder. The beehive hunt being a distraction for us both. While Luda and Rexa entertain me to divert my worry, I also know Milga took advantage of Zeb providing him close patient company, assuring him with kind words his eldest daughter would return until he accepted more intimate physical reassurance.

“Not nearly enough time has passed …” I pat his shoulder.

He nods and marches off to check up on one of the many other things he needs to be concerned with. I await Koria’s safe return before I ask more about the mysteries of the Flint Arrows tribe, I figure his joy will match mine when that happens and provide an opportune moment.

“Perhaps releasing Vuzsia so soon not a good idea now?”

“Second guessing, what if, why did we, why didn’t we … all useless, I call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

Milga Stone Blood leans up against her favourite awning post of my cabin, while I remain at my table.

“I could follow with Rexa and several of the new archers if you wish?”

I raise an eyebrow “Not Luda?”

“I am afraid your Speaker of Law would be lost for words if both daughters left his side at once … as you well know.”

I lean forward, elbows on the table. “What of the other matter?”

“The competition has been fierce Lord, such an important decision can’t be rushed, many tests were required, and these take time.” She swings around the post, holding on with one hand, joy dancing across her lips. This display of happiness hasn’t been derived from this competition alone, she thinks I don’t know of her conquering my Speaker of Law.

“Did anyone die? Become sick?”

She shakes her head laughing. “By vote the field was reduced from eight hopefuls to three finalists. All thought you being a Hob would be the most suitable as the final judge … such timing, look the samples approach … how I wonder did that happen?” She places a finger upon her chin, mouth open in false surprise.

“Three? What have you gotten me into?”

---

One giggles as she places her sample upon my table and the second does a juggle as she lands her plate before me. The third though takes a deep sniff of her creation before deftly delivering the meal under my eyes, needing to shift aside the other two using subtle and deft movements, wrong yet so quick and done before any can protest.

I recognise the third, one from the farm, the other two are new, probably part of the elder’s camp. I begin my taste testing with the first, the cook trying to resist clapping her hands in excitement. An excitable goblin if ever there was one, she would entertain or annoy the Head Hob in equal measure most likely.

“They are all stews Lord, we thought the same dish from each would better show any qualities,” offers Milga.

I swill and spit out water and then taste the second, my wooden spoon dipping into the warm bowl of delicious, the aroma forewarning me, which in fact proves true much to my delight. My nodding head as I eat, encouragement for the second cook, her eyes bright, hands on her heart. Not just a cook then, passionate about the vocation.

Grabbing the water skin, I sneak a peek at the third cook. Silent, respectful, and confident. Interesting. A final swill and spit and I begin spooning the third stew into my mouth. I take another full spoonful to be certain and then I curl a finger in the direction of the third cook beckoning her closer.

“Yes, Lord?”

“I know this taste well. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“When I learnt you would be the final judge, I made friends with the two sniffers and while assisting them to prepare your stew I may have learnt enough to recreate the dish …”

Shouts and screams from the other two cooks choke in their throats as Milga casts them a warning look. Behind this sternness the tiniest of smirks escape and I catch her amusement and perhaps appreciation for the third cook.

“What if I didn’t like the stew Zana and Gato prepared, simply tolerating their efforts?”

A smile grows across her lips until I growl. “You could command any on the Farm to be your cook … you don’t need to tolerate anything. So … do I win?”

My original plan simple, find a half decent cook, send them to the Head Hob. If he wasn’t happy send another and so on. Between Zeb and Milga they hatched the ‘contest’, why not send the best cook, impress the Lord Hob their argument … This third cook though thinks, sly or clever I am not certain and perhaps she would be useful beyond cooking while in the Head Hob’s household.

“Number one and two, you haven’t lost yet as I am reserving judgement until number three explains herself more fully. You are both dismissed for now, Milga will find you when I have made a final decision.”

They both bow and leave, their dishes remaining on the table. Milga swoops in, sniffing one and then the other and begins finishing the second first, nodding, smiling, and moaning in appreciation between each spoonful. The third cook, standing beside a sitting Milga squirms. Does my partner make her feel uneasy?

I raise my voice. “Should I smack you to within a finger width of your life for cheating?”

She jumps although recovers immediately after. “Forgive me Lord Hob, I thought to please you and win, gaining your notice. Hoping you would keep me and send one of the others …” She hitches her chest and sobs.

Smack!

I spot Milga’s hand returning. The cook’s chest rushes forward, her hands reaching out towards the table to keep balance.

“She can pretend well Lord,” says Milga.

After an awkward smile and a courtesy, she tries to explain. “My life is at your whim Lord and I don’t wish to die. Sympathy works with goblins and rumours are you aren’t a mean Hob and I thought …”

“Milga, am I a mean Hob?”

She lifts her head out of the near finished second bowl, a dob of stew on the tip of her nose. “You are mean when lying, cheating goblins try to deceive you is what I have heard.” Another spoonful down her throat and she discards the now empty bowl with a clatter and grabs a second, which is the first ...

“I beg your forgiveness Lord. I wish only to please you, willing to follow any command.”

Milga’s head surfaces a second time in a flash, and I nod. A dagger clatters upon the table. The cook edges away, eyes darting between dagger, Milga, her head now back in the bowl and myself.

“Pick up the dagger.”

The cook frowns at me.

“Don’t you understand the command? It can’t be because you refuse, especially after what you’ve promised.”

She slowly nods, reaches for the dagger, and holds the weapon as if she is going to slice a vegetable. Not an assassin then or at least smart enough to not give away an obvious tell.

“Stab yourself.”

Her eyes open wide, wider than I thought possible.

“Did you not hear your Lord’s command? Surely a loyal servant such as yourself isn’t refusing to obey?”

“I … I …” She places the point to her heart and then reconsiders choosing the palm of her other hand. Conflict dances across her face and then resolve. I didn’t ask her to slay herself … yet a cook shouldn’t injure a hand.

In one fluid move she users one hand to tear back the cloth of her shirt exposing a breast and thrusts Milga’s dagger towards the soft smooth mound with the other until piercing her left breast. She bites her lip to prevent screaming, not immediately withdrawing the dagger looking around instead. Milga hands her a cloth. She places the cloth over the wound site while withdrawing the dagger. A minimum of blood escapes in the operation and holding the cloth on the wound she returns the dagger to Milga.

“Another test?” There is a sheer undercurrent of cheeky delight in her question. The hand holding the make-do bandage on her breast wound somehow points her erect nipple directly at me. Milga recognising the flagrant disregard for any modesty almost breaks into laughter herself.

“Your name?”

She almost squeals in delight when answering, “Seka, my Lord Hob.”

“Perhaps I want to know the name of the cheeky female goblin standing in front of me before I ask Milga to slay her.” I crook an eyebrow.

Wrenching back a chair to sit in at the table her head falls into her hands. I score her seven out of ten, a touch over dramatic I believe. Then the bandage tumbles away revealing her full and firm breast … the congealing beads of blood along the stab line, black pearls and I have no doubt this isn’t the first time she reaches for theatrics, the wound and naked breast adding to the performance.

“No Lord, I wish to serve you … please.”

Milga grabs the third bowl and pipes up, “That could almost be her first genuine plea …”

I remain unconvinced also, although appreciating her talent. “Look up.” Her eyes find mine. “You will be appointed Head Cook, the other two will be under your charge and do the most if not all the cooking.”

She swallows. “If they cook then …”

“You will order them about for appearance’s sake, your main task will be to find out things, about the Head Hob, his loyal goblin and any deals done. Make yourself known to the village goblins. In short you are to be my eyes and ears. I plan to drop off honey to the Head Hob regularly, you must remember and report to whoever does the delivery.”

She nods. “Lord I could write notes and pass them …”

Milga and I break out into laughter, where has this goblin been hiding? I sober up and decide that is a good question.

“Seka, who are you really?” I grab her hands and pull. My eyes are a hands width away from hers. Milga has a dagger point on the back of her neck.

She struggles to catch her breath; her chest is hard up against the edge of the table and Milga’s body leans against the back of Seka’s chair. Drips of blood ooze around her neck and begin to pool between her breasts.

“Lord,” she gasps.

I release until she takes a deep breath and then I pull her forward enough to allow shallow breathing.

“Speak, you will only have this one chance.”

“I am a spy for Meb, I thought being your cook I would be able to get closer to you …”

I release her, Milga sheaths her dagger and goes back to eating.

“Well, good to know.”

Her mouth dry, I notice her trying to work saliva and offer her the waterskin. Wiping her lips with the back of a hand after drinking she hands it back. Her breast wound oozes blood anew joining two other, now dry trails and yet she shows no concern.

“You aren’t going to slay me, hold me for ransom or favour …” She bites her bottom lip. “Have your way with me …”

A half-empty bowl scraps across the table. “You could have any cook on the Farm and yet you accept that stew,” says Milga. Seka, if that is her name and I look at my partner.

With the opportunity now available, Milga grabs Seka’s chin and turns her face left and then right. “You are his half-sister by another mother I suspect. Am I right?”

I lounge back in my chair. Spies are fickle creatures, as easy to double or even triple cross as not, except if they are family or blood relatives. Either they are already your declared enemy, possibly a rival or if not, looking for power from within. If ambitious, appearing as loyal as any spy can while waiting to rise and be in charge, typically by seizing an opportunity from either a leader’s failure or a moment of weakness. Their true loyalty only tested upon capture.

“Yes, and my name isn’t Seka, it is …”

I place a hand across her mouth. “We don’t want to know in case we accidently let it slip. To us you are and will ever be Seka, Head Cook to the Head Hob.”

“You, you still trust me?”

“You are perfectly qualified, for the most part you will be away from the Farm so unable to spy for your half-brother and with good reason, your plan to be closer to me backfired and you will now be elsewhere, close to the Head Hob instead.”

She chews a nail. “What of the information I have passed to my half-brother already … you don’t wish to punish me?”

“I don’t think I have too many secrets, enlighten me.”

“He knows how many spears you received from the Smith Hob,” she squeaks.

I shrug. “He was gifted what I promised. What else?”

She blushes green. “Your unusual interest in goblin birthing …”

I chuckle. “Anything more revealing?”

She shakes her head. “No Lord Hob.” As if a lightbulb goes off, she adds, “The sniffers need to speak with you, they have a surprise … they asked me to tell you, put you in a good mood it would they said …”