--- Lord Klar POV

My thin frame in Lord Torngul’s enormous chair is oddly unnerving, yet I must continue the Tournament pantomime in his absence. Thalgora lounges on the right arm of the throne chair while using me for support, draping herself across my shoulders. Zergoa and Duzsia stand on my left and right respectfully while my eyes scan the still growing crowd under another fine blue-sky day.

Black blood from prior matches decorates the battle circle, faint yet obvious as the next contest gathers interest. On the edges, female hobgoblins in full battle kit toe the line, a healthy space separating each.

Slinking into my lap, shivering and sporting early morning goosebumps, a near-naked Izga joins us on the dais.

“We have found Dorgrav, and Zoria is escorting him to recover the rest of Lord Torngul’s household. In the meantime, he has told us that today’s contests are several rounds for those of no favour or fame to battle and earn Lord Torngul’s notice to enter later rounds.”

I wrap my arms around her lithe body, drawing Izga closer to snuggle into my embrace. “What was yesterday, then? When Voria suffered an injury, surely not other no names.”

Her warm breath caresses my neck as she speaks. “No Lord Klar, they were the Clan sponsored or those with names. They now form the pool of contenders, who will combat the survivors of today’s contest.” Her body shifts upon my lap, her head rubbing my shoulder. “There will be enough rounds to ensure we end up with the same number of challengers.”

Sixteen contestants assemble evenly around the edge of the battle circle. I climb to my feet. Izga adjusts… she slides from my lap and slinks around behind me, yet her warmth and mine remain in close contact. “No more,” I shout, gaining the attention of all.

Full of confidence, I strut to the edge of the dais and raise my hands. “By the command of Torngul Heartsplitter, Lord of the Grassplains, two will enter and I will declare the one who draws first blood or forces the other out of the battle circle the winner. The loser can appeal to those appreciating the contest and if they shout out sufficient support, I may declare them eligible to enter a later round.”

Mumbling brews, yet there is no stronger dissent. Good. Everyone loves an underdog, and, in this way, additional rounds will be a certainty, ensuring the entertainment continues.

I look over my shoulder at Zergoa. A leap and thudding landing announces her arrival into the battle circle. Strolling around to face each contestant, her eyes take in each hopeful challenger while offering them the open end of a barrel tucked within the crux of her arm. Each draws a chit from the barrel.

“Now that is done, those with the same number will fight each other. I call the two fours to begin. Other contestants take one step back from the edge of the battle circle.”

A size mismatch to begin then. The larger with armour, while the lighter wears none. Wary of each other, they position themselves at opposite edges of the battle circle while facing me. A curt bow of the head from each, which I return. “Begin!” I shout.

The larger charges, shield leading, trying for the easy win. The lighter skips away with ease and keeps moving while teasing with her two-handed spear, which often rings off the shield of the larger one. After a time, the crowd shuffles about with an occasional shout for more violence and fist waving. The larger slows, sweat gathering on her brow, while the lighter continues her dance. Then, quick as a snake and entirely out of the blue, the lighter one wields her spear with one hand to extend her reach. The thin leaf spearhead pierces the top of her larger opponent’s boot, drawing blood. The larger stops dead. While the lighter looks at me.

“A winner,” I shout, my hand pointing at the lighter female.

“No!” protests the heavier female. “That is not real combat, that is a trick!”

The lighter turns on her opponent. “In real combat, I would use terrain and have you exhaust yourself trying to track down a ghost, except the ghost wouldn’t target your foot.”

With sword still at the ready, the larger contestant approaches the dais with ease, her wound no inconvenience. “Lord Klar, I would petition the wound nothing, the drawing of blood to meet the rules of the contest and not the spirit of the contest. Would she be able to protect Lord Torngul?” She shakes her sword at the light contestant.

“We will never know until the moment it happens,” booms a familiar voice in the crowd. Lord Torngul throws back the hood of his full-length cloak while Voria and Trela hide their faces in the shadow of their cowls. The crowd inhales as one, while in lockstep Lord Torngul and his honour guard cross the battle circle and approach the dais. Both contestants bow their heads.

“Welcome Lord Torngul. I hope I haven’t erred by starting the contest in your absence,” I declare. I must play my part, I remind myself.

“No, time is precious, and I have an announcement to make. First, though.” He points at the lighter opponent. “Your win stands.” There is a weak cheer. “Secondly.” He points at the heavier opponent. “You can enter a later round and prove yourself more adaptable to the situation and the opponent.”

They both bow again and disappear into the crowd. Lord Torngul steps up and onto the dais, while I and my companions take our leave, standing behind the throne-like chair.

Torngul swivels about to face the crowd while Voria and Trela take up their positions behind him.

“I announce I have taken a wife!”

The crowd cheers, a full roar of acclamation. He needs to downward wave his palms to silence them.

He swivels on his hips and throws back Trela’s hood and offers his hand to her, which she accepts.

“I name Trela Truehearted as my wife from this day forth!” He raises their hands as one and then uses the grip to swing her into his embrace. “This, of course, means I am now short another in the honour guard and, unfortunately for me, my new wife forbids me, concubines. Therefore, as a marriage gift to her, my honour guard will be purely martial in duty and no more.”

This announcement causes an uproar, with shouting about changing the rules mid-tournament. Again, he needs to calm the crowd with hand waving.

“I accept and acknowledge your protests. Hence, those who won through yesterday and now wish to withdraw may do so. Their defeated opponent can re-enter the Tournament. Those who declined to compete under the previous rules can add their name to the lists before dusk today and enter the Tournament. Are we satisfied?”

Cheering greets his question. He nods and withdraws to his throne. Trela sits on his lap, while Voria takes up her position on his right. He snaps his fingers at Zergoa and Duzsia, who return to the throne and stand in line with the still hooded Voria, Zergoa on the left and Duzsia behind.

He whispers, “Lord Klar. You may leave now with my thanks.”

I want an explanation and resist the urge to grind my teeth. Zeb Stone Grim seems his old Lord Torngul self again, yet calm. No, he took a wife. Does that suggest he has accepted the here and now as his new reality? His goblin wife truly in the past? Trela lounges about, her playful hands exploring his husband’s chest, while Lord Torngul, face lacking frown and worry lines, seems to have found a balance. I can only turn away, this isn’t the time and certainly not the place to confront Lord Torngul, even if I want to slap Zeb Stone Grim about… With an arm around Izga’s waist, we both jump from the dais onto the cobblestone street and leave Lord Torngul, his bride, his bodyguards, and his Tournament behind intent on returning to the Manor.

On instinct, I glance up at a particular window. A window high above us in the Manor, with an excellent view and from which any could follow the tournament proceedings. Thinking I will surprise and somehow glimpse a waving Luda wearing an ear-to-ear goblin smile, I am disappointed. A curtain blocks any such nonsense. I further squeeze Izga into my embrace.

Rounding the corner, we reach the north gate and meet Zoria on guard duty.

“No guards returned to his service?” I ask.

Zoria’s eyes flash to her right, towards the small guard’s post built into the wall of the manor. Pulling the door open, I spy, trussed up inside a fleeting memory. Reaching in and picking her up, her eyes go wide, I suppose because of the ease with which I do so. I place a finger across my lips and then drop her gag.

She takes a deep breath, and then motions to open her mouth wide. I raise my eyebrows. She closes her mouth slightly and tries to move her arms and legs, probably as a hint to me. I shake my head. Her shoulders slump and then she must reach a decision. She rises, chin up, shoulders back, as far as comfortably possible.

“My father sent me,” she announces. “He wishes to invite you to our farm so you can begin transforming our farm into a success.”

I flash her a devilish smile. “Does he forgive me for servicing his daughter?”

She shakes her head. “He wanted to alliance betroth me. He feels more trapped now and has decided as much as it has cost him, he must take as much advantage as he can.”

What this Clan Head’s daughter doesn’t suspect is I have experimented upon her. My wives and I have proven we can command or will the nanorobots to reshape and enhance the flesh bags our spirits inhabit, so keeping a modicum of self-control during the Hob seeding lust, I manipulated my seed. First, to the well-groomed females in the room, I urged fertility in one in every three and female conception only. For Clan Hungry and their females, I gifted fertility to every female receiving my seed and a male conception of one in every four. The Hobgoblin Town birth rate evidence suggests this outcome will be something momentous, which means I have nine months to leave this valley or face, I am certain, unreasonable demands for my seed. For the Clan Head’s daughter, though, something special and I hope a reward for bravely stepping forward first. I instructed my nanorobots to conceive male triplets in her womb.

I pick her up and turn her around to unbind her wrists; she rubs them while I kneel before her and untie her ankles. Rising to stand, she looks up at me and licks her lips.

“No,” I say.

She sighs. “Follow me. I have a boar and cart waiting.”

“I am not going now. First, I would like some company of my own and that may not be possible until tomorrow.”

She kicks at the cobblestones. “That isn’t the plan. We leave now and reach the farm middle of the day. Gives you time to look around, provide some guidance and then we return just after dusk.”

I grab her shoulders; she squeaks in surprise. “New plan. We leave early in the morning, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. We take food for at least three days, so we don’t eat the last of your food because I will stay at least two nights.”

“What? Where will I go until then?”

Her look of concern is rather cute and my hesitation to answer only makes her expression more desperate and my enjoyment increase. Releasing her shoulders, I say, “Dismiss your boar and cart, and you can spend the required number of nights in our servants’ quarters. I am certain there will be room.”

“Servant’s quarters? But I am a Clan Head’s daughter. There is a certain level of hospitality to be expected.” Her chin rises while drawing her lips thin.

“Return to your father’s Stone Manor. We will pick you up from there,” I reply, enjoying every moment of our conversation.

Colour washes over her face, a darker green I think impossible. “Our Clan is no longer in Hobgoblin Town. I am the last and remained behind only to fetch you. My father expects me with you on the farm around the middle of the day.”

Dorgrav pokes his head around the corner and immediately swivels about, trying to beat a hasty retreat.

“Dorgrav, come back, otherwise I will report your poor courtesy to Lord Torngul and, as you know, his mood hasn’t been great of late.” I tap my foot and shortly after, his head pops around the corner again. I wiggle my finger at him and then curl it back towards me. He straightens and assumes the deportment of a Major Domo of Lord Torngul.

“Yes, Lord Klar?” he tries to look down his nose at me, which fails as I am slightly taller now, I realise.

“No guards returned?”

“No, not that I tried hard. The various Clans hired them. Obviously, for their knowledge of the manor and once drained, they will be thrown out and back onto the streets. I am going to have a word with Lord Torngul em, at some future suitable moment and suggest we offer positions to those in the Tournament who didn’t quite make the grade yet seemed competent enough.” His smug smile said everything.

I didn’t want to explain to him why that was a bad idea because I needed his help, so I simply mumble false agreement.

“Erm, yes. Well, I need a favour of sorts. Food for three days, two boar mounts prepared, and the north gate always closed unless someone known demands entry, for example, Lord Torngul.”

His hands point in several directions at once while he turns his head in other directions, both actions independent of each other. I grab his shoulders, and he jumps in shock or surprise, possibly both. I release him.

“Stable hands prepare the mounts. Kitchen staff the food. The gate can be closed. When someone bellows to be let in, spy them from the battlement and if they are known, signal to the stable hands to open the gate. Yes?”

He nods and dashes off.

I notice Duzsia nearly bent over with laughter, only recovering her poise after I shake my head. I can only explain Dorgrav’s indecision because of recent events and the resultant insecurity. It’s not every day you go from a high position under firm rulership to crazy because a female honour guard is on the brink of death. Or is it the fact Lord Torngul valued a female hobgoblin at all? Male hobgoblins are important, females are expendable… and now Lord Torngul marries again, but not to the one he fawned over. No, the other honour guard and she decides concubines are no longer permitted… This would disturb one such as Dorgrav, one who has been in his Lord’s service for many years and only recently has found the need to reassess. Ever since I joined his Lord’s Manor.

“What is your name?”

“Do you really want to know? I mean, while I am a Clan Head’s daughter, do you really want to know?”

I place my hands behind my back to prevent my grabbing of her again. “Well, we will travel together, and I can’t just call to you by saying ‘hey you’ now, can I?”

“Most do.” She shrugs and her eyes look around the manor courtyard for the first time. I sense I am in the way and take several steps to the side and offer an open hand, inviting her to look at all she wants. The stable hands prepare the boars, rubbing them down, throwing the saddles over them and placing a feedbag to their snout. Meanwhile, servants leave two double saddlebags on a table nearby.

Two stable hands lead the boars towards us, only stopping to throw the saddlebags over the beasts. They hand off the reins. Before they escape, I remind them to close the gate behind us and only open the gate if someone high on the battlement above the gate signals them to do so. Simple instructions. What could go wrong?

Izga joins me, while Duzsia, as punishment, shares with the Clan Head’s daughter. We make good time with an allowance for the beasts to graze. Clan Hungry’s farm is due west along a wide dusty path. We pass fields full of goblins. Slow, of different ages, underfed and without closer examination to confirm, probably ill-treated. There is at least one female hobgoblin overseer for every twenty goblins. Water is plentiful while no field lays fallow and every field grows the same crop, a corn stalk-like plant. Many are stunted, and I am uncertain what the goblins are achieving in the field.

We reach the main farmhouse, an awning down one length sags. One section seems threatening to collapse before our eyes and the tall main doors seem fixtures, necessary to hold up the roof above them. There is a welcoming committee, including Clan Head Zinmog. We exchange pleasantries and I note none of my female conquests from the other day are present. The Clan Head’s daughter is the only exception, who walks with us. The others, I assume, spy upon us from windows and doorways. I ask to meet with the Clan Head alone. His family is rightly nervous, yet I leave Zoria and Izga behind, as well.

“Do you have a new field anywhere on your farm?” I ask.

He hangs his head down. “We do, well, sort of. You must explain to Lord Torngul that we have to bend the limits of our charter, or we would all starve. Is that why you are here, to report on us?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t know the charter included land boundaries, so let’s keep pretending I don’t know. Instead, take me to this new field.”

His relaxing smile is a welcome change. I expect more awkward moments, but feigning ignorance seems acceptable to us both.

---

A lazy river borders the virgin field, probably a light forest previously, as there aren’t any huge tree stumps present. This is possibly not by choice; I suspect their tools are limited and what they have well worn out. Inspecting the field, I make an interesting find. I show a sample of the plant to the Clan Head.

“That weed grows everywhere and if the goblins are idle from other work, they clear it, otherwise we burn it. Why?”

“I need you to plant the weed, which we will call the bean plant from now on, in your poorest yield fields.”

He takes his hat from his head and slaps the misshapen thing on his thigh, remaining dead quiet. He clears his throat and turns to another male standing with us. “You heard him. Get to it. Now!” he screams.

“But… but… how?” his companion asks.

“I don’t care, just make it happen, goblins, hobgoblins, young ones, find the shoots and transplant them, add water. Now get to it.” He turns back to me and plasters a false smile on his face.

I recall Lord Torngul’s decree, no dissent. Instead, he beats up his hat and then orders others to carry out my instructions.

“I will need twenty hobgoblins with your best farming tools. Until I see your farming tools, I won’t know how best to use them.”

“Twenty… em, twenty you say?”

“Yes, instead of one hobgoblin guarding twenty goblins, let one guard one hundred goblins. Who cares if they escape? I can assure you they won’t run because whatever you feed them is better than they could find or hunt for off the farm, mainly because they wouldn’t have the skill or energy.”

He turns to another male.

Before he speaks, I add, “They need to be fit, young and healthy. Twenty. Plus, the best farm tools you have.”

He sighs. “Well, you heard him. Take them off guard duty if you have to.” Another of his clan runs off to do my bidding.

I point towards the end of the field. “We will dig a pond at one end of the field and then, from that pond, trenches. The soil from the trenches will pile up in between. We will use wood planks to dam between the pond and the trenches. When the pond water is high enough, we will remove the wooden planks and let the water run the length of the trench. Refill the pond and repeat for the next trench and so on.”

He scratches his bald head. “Well, sure beats waiting for the rain or carrying buckets to every spot.”

“You have a lot of buckets?”

“We certainly do, to water during high sun season.”

“What grain do you have in storage?” I ask, trying to convey a happy and light tone to my words.

“The best from last year’s harvest. We may not have enough spare to sell, but we will eat well enough.”

“That is always good.”

Hobgoblins arrive in ones and twos with various tools, some more useful than others. I notice the handles are short, goblin height, I suspect.

I take Duzsia and Izga aside. “Ask Lord Torngul if he can spare some coin for new shovels and hoes for the farm experiment, he assigned me. Hurry back with the tools or rejection.”

They both object, yet I assure them I will be fine. After all, I am among friends… I hope.

I grab a shovel and demonstrate what I want them to do, which is dig a shallow ditch and toss the soil to the right to build a mound and try to keep a straight line. Five hobgoblin females set off on the task. Another ten use an assortment of digging tools to dig out a pond at the head of the rows. For the last few who arrive, I start them off digging more rows.

“Have there been any reports that your goblins have run off?”

He shakes his head. “No, Lord, just as you predicted.”

I nod. “They could be braver tomorrow.”

Duzsia and Izga return late in the afternoon, and I hand out the new shovels and hoes to the hardest workers as judged fairly or unfairly by myself. I didn’t want to put the Clan Head in this position. As a neutral stranger to the Clan, I could weather any backlash.

Before dusk, I bid our host goodbye and with Duzsia and Izga we strike out across the river and enter the light forest on the other side. We slaughter a boar and capture a sow. Izga leads the sow while Duzsia and I shoulder the boar hanging from a rough pole threaded through tied legs. We deliver the boar to the main farmhouse and tell the Clan Head to prepare a feast and gather several hobgoblin females to follow us back across the stream. As we lead the sow across, each of the female hobgoblins follows, follow carrying a shoat. Once the family reunites on the other side of the river, they follow their mother. The Clan Head constructed the pen of sorts as he promised, and we lead the sow and family into captivity.

Observing our catch, the Clan Head shakes his head. “The Beastbane Clan, when they find out, will be very upset.”

“Tell them to talk to me or protest to Lord Torngul. This is an experiment. Now we have roasted boar to eat.”

He manages a tiny nervous smile but follows me, anyway.

---

After the feast, the Clan Head leads us to our own cottage made from clay bricks and a thatched roof. He explains there is a main room with a smaller room off to one side. A hanging sheet of cloth provides privacy.

I smile. “Good night,” I say.

His hands fidget and he steps back after stepping away. “I don’t wish to insult you, but to invite you into the main farmhouse would be too much temptation. Food especially, armour and weapons and… the females who you serviced have spoken of your… skill and afterwards…” His face turns a deep green as he forces his body away from the cottage entrance and hurries back to the farmhouse.

“You always leave an impression, Lord,” says Izga as she wraps herself around me.

I shake my head at Zoria, who nods, yet doesn’t stop holding a torch high to survey our immediate surroundings. I push the cottage door open, carrying Izga inside with me. Zoria follows with the torch, and we observe movement under the blanket of the only bed in the cottage.

“If you don’t show yourself, I will stab you.”

“Please don’t,” says a feminine voice. A familiar feminine voice.

The blanket falls away to reveal the Clan Head’s daughter, naked.

“Go back to your father, now.”

“But… I offer myself… forever if I must.”

“If I service you, what of the others in this clan? Won’t they demand the same and when I say no, they will think you have told me not to? The solution?”

She reaches for her plain linen shift to cover herself. “They will harm or slay me…”

I nod. “Zoria, help her dress and ensure you escort her out, throw her if you wish to, but be sure to say words like, ‘he has two, he needs no more’ or the like for all the eavesdroppers who I am certain will be waiting.”

“You can’t!” She jostles, trying to resist Zoria grabbing her yet failing. Zoria is faster and stronger than any Clan female and probably many Clan males.

Zoria drags her to the cottage door, while her captive stamps her feet.

“Wait!” she says. “Let me dress.”

Zoria pauses, helping and then continues and they are both gone. I hear Zoria's words and shortly after she returns. We make the best of our single bed and sleep.

--- Izga POV

 

Each time I receive his seed, I mediate to force improvements upon myself, hearing first, then night vision and now core strength. I wait by the cottage front door, listening. The occasional scuffing of boots fades to none. They would belong to the hobgoblins. More subtle noises carry on the night air, ones which make you doubt, yet certain, at the same time. I suspect these belong to the slave goblins of this clan. I can’t imagine slinking out into the night through the cottage door. Surely the hobgoblins would keep watch, and possibly the goblins as well. Notwithstanding, the treasure they are after is inside the cottage, not outside, so I wait. Studying my Lord’s prone sleeping body never grows old. He grows taller, his muscles stronger than their size and shape suggest, and he permits my clinging. I am certain others think I am being suggestive. What they don’t know is how much I crave body contact after years of dedicated training devoid of affection.

A scraping noise reaches my ears. Then a pause. I scan the cottage walls; they are a dull grey in my night vision, the edges around each brick a darker line. Another scrape and then pause. The patience of the interloper is endless. After a countless number of cycles, a small green head pokes through the cottage wall. The gap isn’t a single brick, but several bricks still mortared together. Along one side, the bricks stick out hinge-like, allowing the door a limited swing motion. The goblin sniffs the air, drawing their face towards the cloth partition. One last look and the goblin steps over the foundation row of bricks and into the cottage proper.

My feet hook over one rising roof pole, while my hands grab over the next. These are two of eight which radiate out from the central support and upon which the thatching rests. My core muscles hold my body level and parallel with the floor. Underneath me, the goblin takes another step, reaching for the dagger belt I deliberately left dangling on the back of one of the two rickety chairs in the cottage. The goblin lifts the prize and pauses. I tied the belt around the seat of the chair so a quick snatch and grab would cause the chair to crash. They take another step and feel for the buckle.

I free my feet and control their descent while releasing the curl of my arms. I am behind the goblin when they sniff. As they turn, my hand is over their mouth and my dagger pokes at their midriff.

“Quiet, or you die,” I whisper as I release my hand slightly.

The goblin freezes. “I was curious, mistress, nothing more.”

I shuffle around, with my goblin captive still in front of me, until I face the brick door. I assume one would be inside and pass anything worth stealing out to another waiting outside. If I am wrong, no harm is done.

“How many with you?”

“None, mighty mistress. This dumb goblin is alone…”

Disarming self-depreciation? I push my dagger until I am certain I draw blood. “The door of bricks suggests something different.”

Her, I am fairly certain it is her, nods.

“Call them in,” I whisper.

Her head shakes from side to side. “None, but the first is to enter. A single loss instead of many.”

Warm tears roll over my hand. “Well, that is disappointing. Perhaps I should simply slit your throat and push your corpse through the door and close it. I am certain your body won’t be there in the morning, or anyone mourn your death.”

The goblin's body shivers. “Yes, mighty mistress, I am nothing, a miserable creature…”

“Name?” I ask. “I like to know the names of all I slay.”

“You do!” she squeaks. “You do, mighty mistress?”

I grab her throat and bend down until I can whisper in her ear. “I do.”

“Nudia, mighty one. I am happy to die under your blade and at last be free.”

“I like your name, so I have decided you can live if you leave now.”

Given her goblin name, I am certain now my guest is female. She tests my grip by trying to move. Her eyes look over her shoulder as an arm’s length separates us. Another step and she can duck through the brick entrance. She pauses.

“I will need to take something with me, mistress, if you wish for your life-giving to remain a secret. None will believe you let me live.”

I throw her two apples, which she deftly catches and secrets in her threadbare shift. Then she is gone, except for a single hand which closes the brick door and before being caught vanishes, yet the door continues to close until blending in with the wall. I place a leaning chair against the brick door and then another against the cottage door, just in case, and climb into bed.

“Did you have fun with Nudia?” asks Lord Klar.

Why should I be surprised he is awake?

“Not sure, Lord. The goblins obviously operate at night and have, over time, made secret ways into the cottages to steal what they need and remain undiscovered.”

I ruffle her hair. “The goblins built the cottages, still build the cottages. They can’t steal a great deal, otherwise, someone would notice their thefts, and any suspicion would fall upon them worst of all. Make sure you find Nudia and when you do, I will ask the Clan Head for a goblin to keep our cottage tidy. We will parade her and several other possibilities and, by some miracle, we will select Nudia.”

“Yes, Lord.”