---Lord Klar POV
We break our fast in the cottage and equip ourselves before walking into a bright blue sky dawn morning. Approaching the main house, we notice several hobgoblins scrambling out of sight, and while odd or perhaps amusing, we continue.
Our twenty hobgoblins from yesterday scramble to line up in front of the main house, effectively blocking the entrance to the ramshackle building. Last to join us on parade is the Clan Head, who bows before me on arrival.
“We are ready, Lord.”
They have the new tools in hand, and none have gone missing. Amazing.
Today is much like yesterday, except by the end of the day, the pond and field are ready and tested. I exhausted most of my help, hobgoblins with digging and levelling, while goblins, bucket by bucket, kept refilling the pond after each test. To keep my promise, I had a word to the Clan Head and a selection of goblins were lined up so we could choose one to clean my cottage.
After much inspecting and chatter, my wives pretend to argue over their first choices and instead settle for the third they chose from the line-up. The Clan Head dismisses the remaining goblins, who trudge back to wherever they shelter and eat. Several groups of female hobgoblins loitering until the end of the day also leave shortly after. I assume to witness for themselves a hobgoblin Lord accept a goblin inside his cottage.
Dusk is due, so we take Nudia with us on our boar hunt and return with the same result as yesterday, although I would have stayed out all night if needed to ensure a triumphant return.
We deposit Nudia in our cottage to clean while we feast upon the boar for another night. Many of my female Clan partners watch me yet don’t approach. Zoria’s warning proving effective. I make excuses to the Clan Head, and we retire early to our cottage as I need to question my goblin servant.
Nudia had been busy. We left nothing of value behind, so theft wasn’t available to her and as we entered, we found her standing beside a made bed in a tidy, swept out cottage.
“All is clean, master and mistresses,” she says, chin up.
I throw her a slice of roasted boar, which she grabs and tucks away in her clothing. I shake my head and point at her. She opens her mouth to speak and then closes it, sinking her teeth into the slice of roasted boar instead. I dangle four more pieces before her eyes, which open wide, and she momentarily forgets to chew.
“My wives tell me some goblins like yourself seem to be fed adequately, while others aren’t much more than skin and bone. Why?”
She chomps again on her boar, eyes blank. She swallows the last and then casts her eyes down. Trying to search for a believable lie in the brick flooring of the cottage, I suspect. After a time, she looks up. “I… can’t.”
“Who can?” I reply while pulling her towards me by grabbing her threadbare shift. Fortunately, she doesn’t resist, otherwise, she would probably stand naked before me.
“Late tonight. I will lead you to him.”
I nod and point to a corner of the cottage. “Sleep there.”
I assume during our sleep she will sneak out to make the arrangements.
---
In the dead of night, Nudia wakes us and with haste we dress and follow her out of the cottage’s secret door, which she closes behind us. Dashing from cottage to cottage, we reach the edge of a former old-growth forest, now mainly brush and saplings in between rotted out cut stumps to mark the places of once mighty trees. Much to Nudia’s surprise, we follow her with ease, Izga and Zoria’s night vision a match or better than mine. As for Nudia, once in the forest, she must need to follow abstract signs given her frequent pauses; a peculiar grouping of stones, a marking on a tree, or perhaps the dark shape of the tree itself. I deduce there isn’t one marking type or location but several, and only together do they lead anyone true. Eventually, we breach a wild unkempt hedgerow and discover a low campfire. A single goblin squats adjacent, taking his ease by prodding twigs forward to control the flame's height and hence the amount of light. I spy countless other goblins nearby concealing themselves in the night's dark thinking they hide from us.
“That is far enough,” he hisses from under a cowl.
I hold my hands up. “We are here to talk, nothing else,” I say.
“What would a hobgoblin Lord want to discuss with a wretched goblin?” His tone being deliberately hostile.
I fold my arms across my chest. “I have questions like, why are there fed and unfed goblin slaves in this hobgoblin clan?”
“Some decide to resist, while others don’t,” his curt reply. “If that is all, then begone.”
I resist the urge to leap over the campfire and throttle him and instead ask, “Resist what? It seems the hobgoblin clan is as much defeated as the goblins they call slaves.”
“Because they are useless and don’t listen.” His poking of the campfire with a stick causes the fire to blaze up for a moment. Anger? Frustration?
“The goblins here weren’t always slaves, were they?”
“In this valley, yes.” He pokes the fire again and looks up. “We are descendants from another valley where Lord Farmer Hob taught us the ways of farming. Tales from our elders say he was, mostly, fair unless you betrayed him. For our wisdom, the hobgoblins belittled and punished us upon arrival and we couldn’t escape, so we—”
Lord Farmer Hob… I almost lose my breath and am thankful he continues talking so I can recover. Zoria and I glance at each other and then, as if stung, look away.
“What do you know?” he hisses, while climbing to his feet and shedding his cowl with a snap of cloth.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Liars! All hobgoblins of this valley are lairs, and untrustworthy.” He shakes his head while storming away from the firelight.
“Name your elders,” I whisper, desperate to avoid bloodshed. With him close, I am certain the lurking goblins won’t risk attack, well that is my theory and hope.
Without turning to face me, he rattles them off. “Rexon, Xegok, Dexeg, Gexazek and Jenat, the original five appointed by Lord Farmer Hob.”
“Lord Farmer Hob appointed each of them only after he broke Jotor, the Head Goblin of the Farmers for betrayal. As you say, he hated betrayal most of all. I know little of their history except for their names and how they oversaw the fields granted to them. Except to say, he assigned Gexazek a virgin field and, through hard work and perseverance, excelled.” The last about Gexazek is guesswork. But if the legend venerated five, then all must have succeeded or near enough, so, over time, the telling of their deeds would have grown into success, as each goblin generation told the next. This is how legends worked, inconvenient detail, always the first casualty, something as a GPA I have witnessed across multiple planets, races, and cultures, and always the same. Therefore, five names, five successes. If there were four names, then the fifth failed badly enough to be dropped from the legend. This is a goblin legend specifically about success, skill, and triumph. Whether they realise it, their food growing nurtured the start of goblin and hobgoblin civilisation.
Silence. Then the level of rustling from leaves grows above that due solely to a simple wind shift. With my night vision, I spot twenty, possibly thirty goblins, male, female, and children edging their way forward from behind our host. I assume similar numbers from the other directions.
His voice calls to me. “The legends say the High Priestess of Klug struck all memory of Jotor, the Head Goblin of the Farmers from existence, his name never to be spoken of again under threat of death. His death well before the conquering of the valley by her son, Klugrath the Vanquisher, and the beginning of their subjugation of and preaching into other valleys. So, an ancient secret of Lord Farmer Hob’s valley, which few would know to tell others.” His face whips around. Across the campfire, flames dance in his eyes as he stares up at mine. “How does a hobgoblin know of the breaking of Jotor?”
She would do that, I guess. Rexa hated him, and she would hold a grudge, although wiping his name from history was an extreme and spiteful measure. Still, this goblin is waiting for an answer and all I have is Milga Stone Blood. She always planned to leave the valley and I can only hope she succeeded beyond all expectations and established her own colony.
“I was born into Milga Stone Blood’s settlement. They tell the correct history of Lord Farmer Hob, so none will forget.”
Gentle humming issues from between their lips and all the goblins surge forward. Izga and Zoria turn to me, and I reply with a curt shake of my head. They flow around my wives, who may as well be tree trunks, obstacles in the way, no more. I unfold my arms to free my hands as the mass centres upon me. In reverent turns, they lay their hands upon me and withdraw to allow others to do the same. At the end, our host meets me eye to eye while laying his hands upon my chest, over my heart, lingering, possibly contemplating, and then steps back. All the other goblins by then have retreated into the dark while Izga and Zoria, with weapons still sheathed, once again standalone.
“We honour the sacrifice of your mother’s mother. While I doubted you, others felt a kinship which you have proven by words. The first-born hobgoblins from Milga Stone Blood’s settlement would have cost their goblin mother their lives. A necessary sacrifice if the Klugites are ever to be stopped.”
I am taken aback, as I don’t deserve their sincere sympathy. I am fake. All I can reply with is a thank you while my mind shifts to escape the guilt, dwelling instead on his last sentence. Has the birthing of hobgoblins become the de facto arms race where goblin mothers pay the ultimate price or once paid the price? Whatever has changed to give them a chance of surviving I welcome, otherwise, I will forever be the reason for this waste of life. How many mothers have I indirectly slain?
“What of the females with you?”
His curious question brings me back to the present. “What of them?”
His head tilts slightly, questioning perhaps? “Ask them to kneel before the campfire, please.”
I don’t see I have much of a choice and here I was thinking I had gained their trust, and we were all friends… I wave Zoria and Izga closer to the campfire and by design position them in front of me resting a hand on each of their shoulders. A shuffling noise alerts us to a new arrival, a bent-over elder crone of a goblin, milk-white eyes needing to lean on a gnarled wooden staff after each step. All remain quiet in her presence and time passes slowly until she faces Izga. Her head moving up and then down as if her eyes functioned, but how could they?
She grapples for one of Izga’s hands. I feel Izga wince and then observe an ooze of black blood leaking from her thumb. The crone licks the thumb and takes a deep breath. Her body shivers while her head lolls about upon her shoulders. In a hoarse voice, she declares, “This one is of this valley, a mixture of many bloodlines. Ha!” She shakes her head once and then tastes Izga’s fresh blood again. “Her strongest linage is of Relentless, yet also Keen Eye, and now diluted to unimportance. Common, because she is a bred spy of The Eater Clan, like her mother before her.” She licks her lips and draws Izga’s blood a third time. “Yet her blood is strong, tasty.” A long cheerful smile and she seems done. Then she sniffs, and crouching forward slightly, she sniffs again until her nose hovers over Izga’s loins. She turns to face the shadows and says, “I think her master knows this, as I smell his seed upon her.” While Izga wilts, the crone turns back to face her and reaches for her crotch and squeezes. I hear Izga whimper, yet she remains stoic, to avoid disgracing me. “You are his common hobgoblin bitch, aren’t you, young one, hoping to rise on his deeds and escape your unimportant linage?” She releases her grip and Izga exhales. “Know your blood will always reveal you as common and no more.”
Salacious snickering laughter whispers over us. Izga’s body slumps, her head down. How I wish I could comfort her, drag her up into my arms and tell her she is of worth. To keep the peace, all I can offer is a comforting rub and a squeeze of her shoulder. My inner Hob, though, rises, wishing to rip the old crone asunder. There is no explanation. Is he defending Izga? Does he consider the crone has denigrated my property and, hence, by association, me? I urge him to calm as there are too many goblins to defeat without loss and another the crone is determined to assess.
She shuffles across to Zoria, nee Briksia.
More prepared, Zoria endures the unnerving inspection and doesn’t react when the crone stabs her thumb, yet the ceremony and theatrics are the same. I don’t dismiss her blood tasting; goblin sense of smell is extremely sensitive, and it wouldn’t be an enormous leap to assume their sense of taste is similar. Yet, surely some conclusions must be guesswork as much as mine were regarding the farming legend.
“Ah, yes, one of the first, a progeny of the three daughters and the three tribes we hail you.”
Zoria tilts her head. “The three daughters and the three tribes?”
“You only know your mother and father, I guess because to know anymore, as a hobgoblin, would be dangerous. The Klugites consider certain linages as proof of betrayal, others of disloyalty, subtle distinctions but the punishments differ, and their Priestess test all the hobgoblins they can. They aren’t always at hand, so a hobgoblin’s ignorance can delay their death. You, my dear they would sacrifice to Lord Klug.” The Crone casts a venomous look at Izga. “She, they would try to recruit into their cult, like most of the impure hobgoblins in this valley.”
She leaves off patting Zoria’s hands and cracks a smile while looking about. I am certain her eyes can’t see, but she completes her blind scan into the dark. “For goblins, though, no one cares what we remember.”
A sound wave of snickering rolls around us as a natural and perhaps well-practised ritual. My sight, though, reveals the goblins “pass off” the snickering to the group beside them and so on, creating the effect.
“Can you tell me, please?” There is thick emotion in Zoria’s voice, and I wonder why.
The old crone squeezes Zoria’s hand and, after a warm smile, speaks, “The three daughters of Duzsia, Koria and Luda played a trick on Klugrath before he became Warrior Hob and earnt his despicable name.” The forest settles into silence as if listening as well. “They challenged him to avenge the death of Koria Keen Eye, wife of Lord Farmer Hob, his father, by slaying goblins in the Southern Valley. Unknown to him, each daughter aligned with one of the three tribes there to incite his lust. He seeded all the females of the three goblin tribes he could find. Again, a trick, the daughters ensuring he would only find those goblins who were willing, as they convinced the elders of those tribes, they needed to birth stronger goblins and what better than to steal his seed? There wasn’t enough to quell his lust, his loins proven as vigorous as his father’s. Truly his father’s son.” She pauses and we wait for what’s next… “He seeded the three daughters as well, which they had no choice but to endure as no goblin, male or female, could stand before him and hope to defeat him. Yet, for all his faults, he felt a deep sense of guilt after laying with his half-sisters and he fled back to the Temple of Klug to escape them and his deed. While the tribal female goblins would birth goblins, the three daughters knew they would birth hobgoblins because although they were goblin in appearance, they were by birth half-hobgoblin, their father being Lord Farmer Hob himself. They knew.” She points to me. “Like his mother’s mother, they would die in childbirth. Yet their mentor tells them a deep secret, praise be to Zoria Oath Keeper, may none forget her name, venerated by all.”
Repeatedly the entire gathering murmurs, “Praise be to Zoria Oath Keeper.”
Izga looks upon Zoria with awe, while I decide she has a bigger tale of her past to tell me.
The crone raises her hands, and the chanting quietens. “Zoria Oath Keeper shared the secret of Lord Farmer Hob’s blood, not only favouring male children but also healing goblin mothers after hobgoblin childbirth.” Somehow the crone’s eyes narrow as she studies Zoria’s, well Briksia’s, face. “All the hobgoblin children of the three daughters have one unique trait from their father, thick strong tusks and you are no exception, yet you are more than you seem.” She blinks slowly and then shakes her head ever so gently and examines Zoria’s face again. “No, something in your blood addles me. Whatever I thought I saw, is now gone. I am tired, yes, that must be it.” She waves a hand at Zoria, shifting her body, preparing to leave, and then hesitates. She reaches for Zoria’s thumb again and draws deeply until she appears catatonic.
Her white eyes blink open. “You, my dear, are a wonderful surprise, of the Southern Valley yes, yet not of Relentless, Unnamed or Keen Eye lineage. No dear, as much as your master’s other bitch is low, you are of the highest high, Oath Keeper lineage. Know that this tribe will defend you to our last breath because any Klugite who finds you will peel the skin from your body over many days until the bliss of death takes you! For Zoria Oath Keeper, in their eyes, committed the ultimate betrayal by gifting others the sacred secret of Lord Hob’s blood.” She shuffles away without speaking another word and, after a good while, disappears into the dark of the night.
Under my hand, I feel Zoria shiver uncontrollably and I draw her to me, curling her around by the shoulder so I can see her face. She looks away. “I am fine. Izga needs you now…”
The goblins crowding us also retreat into the night. Our host tries to join them. I release Zoria, who darts away to guard the cut and place my hand on his shoulder. He jerks to a stop under my grip.
“What if I commanded the Clan Head to heed your advice on farming? Free those goblins willing to assist?”
He spits on the ground. “Your command will last until you leave and then we would return to be nothings. We survive on what you call beans and a white round dirt vegetable we dig up and try to spread where we can.”
He stares at my hand on his shoulder, and I release my grip. He ambles away into the dark like the rest of his goblin tribe and we are alone. I grab for Izga, who tries to rise and flee to Zoria, thinking my release of the goblin provides her with the same opportunity. Crushing her struggles in my warm embrace, whispering sweet words of praise and comfort, her free-flowing tears represent emotional release. Zoria returns to us and hugs her from behind. Izga’s hitching chest and weeping continue. I have an idea that could help her, yet I must remain silent while within the range of goblin ears, so all I can tell her, again and again, is nothing has changed between us.
Zoria leaves us to check the surroundings, while I continue to nurse a sobbing Izga. Through all this, Nudia remains. Is this because she is a loyal or sworn servant, or does she need something from me and is determined to wait forever if necessary?
The Crone’s last words need explaining and since Nudia waits with endless patience, perhaps I can extract some knowledge from her? Over Izga’s shoulder I ask my goblin servant a question, “Nudia, where does your tribe hail from?”
She smiles. “Will I be able to stay in your cottage overnight if I tell you?”
I contemplate beating the answer out of her, except my standing as a hobgoblin birth mother killer would probably take a hit, so I must give in. I close my eyes and nod.
“We are all descendants of the Daughter of the Matriarch’s Colony. Do you know who the Matriarch was?”
I do, of course, but I shake my head as I need the updated legend-based history lesson.
“The tales say the Matriarch united the remaining goblin tribes in the valley and in a great host, they attacked the army of the High Priestess, yet on the verge of victory they suffered defeat. A loud horn blast sounded and from between the opening gates of Head Village, Klugrath, as the Warrior Hob strode forth in the Great Armour and vanquished all who stood before him. The tribes retreated but couldn’t escape because the High Priestess’ army divided before the first battle, half as a rearguard slowly retreating to Head Village, playing for time while the other half hid amongst the forest along the southern river. With perfect timing, this second half crept into the hills behind the combined tribal army and prepared an ambush, to slay or capture those defeated trying to retreat or, if by some miracle they won, to crush them when most would flush with victory and at ease. Why do I tell you this, you ask?”
She smiles and looks at me with the delight of knowing a secret and pausing for suspense. I shrug.
“To show the insight of the Matriarch. Her daughter, now of age, prepared the Grim Weavers to resist if the worst happened. She prepared refuges and food caches in the Grim Weavers' tribal lands. She gathered any survivors from the battle and from other tribes when attacked to rally them in their tribal forest lands. The search and destroy mission by the High Priestess’ army was long and bitter with many casualties. Upon finding an enclave of females, her son, overcome by lust, seeded every female present, including the Matriarch’s daughter by Lord Farmer Hob, another half-sister. When drawn away with his troops by another battle, she rallied all the survivors and, with no other choice, heroically leads them onto the Plains and, after many close calls, reaches the Southern Valley to warn them of the coming doom. She tells them that Klugrath, now Warrior Hob, will seed any female he can, as he has with her and those females with her, to raise the babes as fanatical Klugites. Praise be to Zoria Oath Keeper. They tell her of Lord Farmer Hob’s blood and provide her with a sample which she must grow in volume. She leads her survivors and some from the valley as far south as seven months’ travel will take them, settling in a near-empty valley to give birth to her hobgoblin son.”
She finishes spreading her hands open like a performance ending.
“So why did your tribe leave the Daughter’s valley?”
She kicks at the ground and sways. “Our elders say we were searching for someone in particular and thought in this valley we would find him. Instead, enslavement and then being shunned were our rewards.”
“Who?” I ask. Oh, why did I ask? It is late and we all need sleep…
“A male hobgoblin with proven lust haze, who will seed us…” Her eyes scan my body from bottom to top.
“Why? You aren’t half hobgoblin.”
“Well, yes, we are. What you don’t know is that Xorbrim, son of Zoria Oath Keeper, is our forefather,” she says, bursting with pride. “Why do you think us so prideful and unbent by those who would suppress us? We are of the Oath Keeper line and will never die easy, which is why we don’t sulk like the goblin curs of this valley. We find our own food, keep our strength hidden.”
I glance at Zoria and catch her wiping tears from her eyes. My movement stirs Izga, who leaves my embrace to comfort Zoria, I suspect. Fortunately, Nudia’s wide-open eyes are only for me, seeming to suggest she just realised she said too much to a hobgoblin.
“If, for example, I agree, you will all die in childbirth… erm like my mother’s mother,” I add. I shake my head. “I couldn’t bear such a catastrophe.”
Her arms wrap around my waist. “I shouldn’t say, yet because of the tragedy of your birth, I must. Upon the birth of a female goblin in our tribe, their mother must grow from her own supply, another portion of Lord Farmer Hob’s blood. If fate blesses her daughter in the future to carry a Hob babe, she will live beyond childbirth.”
I gulp. Two things. The first is a misunderstanding of mine. Her wide eyes were of hope and the second, an impossibility, my blood has become an archaic childbirth potion. They must feed the nanorobots somehow to make them multiple with volume, and this becomes a dowry of sorts with the technique taught from mother to daughter. The sole purpose of which is to birth more hobgoblins than the High Priestess of Klug and her cult to prepare for a great battle yet to come. Even Klugrath seeding the southern valley was preparation, goblins to give birth to other goblins with the hobgoblin gene, set like a time bomb to birth hobgoblins even if the mother must die doing so. Eventually, the two populations will meet. This is a mess…
Her head continues to rest against my chest. “Please Lord Klar, I beg you, my tribe begs you… we need the one for all of us, so we can maintain our lineage.”
Zoria and Izga wrap me in their embrace as well. Zoria, with tearing eyes, kisses my cheek, while Izga pats both of our heads. I sigh in defeat. Zoria and Izga kiss me, lingering, passionate kisses, which Nudia doesn’t notice, yet hears and looks up.
“Does this mean yes, Lord Klar?”
I want to scream as I don’t understand why Zoria and especially Izga support this craziness. “This means yes.”
“We are ready.” She takes my hand and tries to lead me elsewhere. I stand my ground.
“Now?” I shake my head. “It is late. Wouldn’t tomorrow night be better?”
“No, Lord Klar, now, we beg you to seed us now. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?” She waves her hand, and my eyes follow. A short distance away is another campfire and multiple goblin in size shadows move about.
Why me? I bury my face in my hands. Am I trying to hide? She tugs at my arm. I rub my eyes and growl in futile defiance.
“Lead on,” I say.
We arrive at the next campfire, which Nudia throws dirt upon to extinguish. Beyond is another hedge, and she leads us through a discrete cut away. Within, a blanket spread surrounds a low campfire. Cosy. Duzsia and Izga stand guard at the entrance, now stuffed with freshly cut brush. Nudia shimmies out of her shift and lays down on the blanket and pats a space beside her. I take one last look at my wives and join Nudia. Once I am standing beside her, several female goblins, all naked, join us, removing my armour piece by piece.
I release myself fully to my inner Hob. The carnal haze is healthy for my sanity as the faces and deeds done to their bodies by me blend with minimal individual recollection.
