---Vorlora, former Apprentice of Duzsia, the Relentless

The howl and baying of dogs hunting me draw closer. I stumble into probably the only depression on the whole of the Grassplains. Sweat, tears and snot stream down my face. I pick myself up and stagger onwards. The fear of Torngul Heartsplitter’s wrath drives me, waiting for his return, a torture I can no longer endure. His judgement. My only regret? He would most likely punish his guards. They thought me wholly broken, and I was for a time. Then, simply as a diversion, I planned for my escape. A fleeting smile graces my lips. Now, I am free from Torngul, Klar, and this valley. But where to? A single possibility converted my idle diversion into action. Milga Stone Blood the Fifth.

My steps slow. Taking deep breaths, I gingerly lower myself into a cross-legged sitting position. The punishment position. Their barking getting louder means they are gaining on me, and the plains offer no significant rivers or even streams to lose my scent. My escape had turned into a marathon, and I knew I would give out long before the beasts. I could only hope the beasts would deliver death to me before their handlers could call them off. At first, I didn’t think myself brave enough to accept death, and now I resign myself to this fate. Between the two extremes of Luda’s absolute disregard and Duzsia’s seeming immortality, I decided there could be room for a third. Me. Acceptance.

The grass rustles. There is no howling. Closing my eyes for a moment, I fondly remember the harsh training days of my childhood when they were anything but.

I lift my head and stare into a spear butt, and then nothing.

---

My eyes blink open as the ache on my forehead throbs. Night, I am sure, as the aroma of freshly cooked meat invades my nostrils. Lying on my side, and my attempt to stand fails. My arms and legs are bound. The warmth of the firepit is on my back, yet I am not the centre of attention. Goblin eyes are on another hobgoblin, a female, as I can glimpse her naked breasts in the flickering light of the firepit.

“You don’t know the scent of your blood?” asks a female goblin, the disgust in her voice plain.

I see the female hobgoblin’s body shake out a denial.

“How can she not know?” asks a male goblin. “She reeks, even I can smell her linage.”

“A mistake then?”

“Yes. But we can sell her. Many northern valley Lords would be keen to breed from her loins.”

Her body worms one way and then the other. Her wrists and ankles, like mine, have leather bindings securing them.

“No!” she screams. “I am fated. Lord Klar will learn of my kidnapping, seek you out, and slay you all.”

Quiet, comfortable chuckling is their response.

She continues, “You think my threat is hollow? Wait and see, wait, and see. I will be the one to slit all your throats…”

A slap silences her.

“Our friends overheard Lord Klar send you off with words of concern and closeness. Why, such was the display of affection they thought you one of his wives!” says the same female voice.

Slapping of thighs and great bouts of laughter erupt.

A male voice adds, “We are on the borderlands now, not on the plains, not in the valley, and he has had days to hunt after us, and yet you remain with us. So yes, we need supplies, and the trading of you will be most beneficial.”

A boot forces my hips to roll. “Troop Leader, this one is awake.”

“Our other guest. Not one of us, no. Mixed blood. Yet, the greater mystery. Tell your story to Zorottor Black Tooth, and you may live to see morning. Know that your value now is less than a blanket at any trading post and certainly not more than the food you would eat until we get there.”

“There is no story. I offended Lord Torngul, and he would want my death, so I escaped him. I planned to escape this valley.”

Again, impolite and dismissive laughter.

A hot breath wafts over my neck. “You weren’t running from Hobgoblin Town. You ran from the northern forest direction…” I can smell his putrid breath. “Truth this time.”

“I stayed within the forest line. Longer I know, but the Grassplains are too vast, and I thought to save chancing them until I had to, yet still I failed.” I fight back my welling tears.

“Now, now,” tuts Zorottor. “You didn’t fail. You just got unlucky. If you had waited one more day, you would have followed our trampled grass instead of running ahead of us.”

Low whispering reaches my ears. Are they discussing my fate?

The female goblin says, “Given your value is nothing, and the other is great, you will be responsible for her captivity.”

“What?” I squeak.

“You or she try to escape, you die. If you both try to escape, you will die. Until then, we will gag you both so you can’t make escape plans.”

“But how can I warn you she is escaping?”

Again laughter. “We will give you a drum to beat.”

---

We travelled by day, slung over a wolf tied wrists to ankles. At night, they unfastened our gags and fed us by hand. One meal, no more, then the gags tied.

My eyes snap open. Night still, yet that wasn’t my primary concern. I couldn’t breathe. Gulping for breath, liquid flows down my throat despite the gag. Worse, an arm or wrist fills my mouth, holding it open. I bite down hard, drawing more blood, yet the limb remains in place, and the owner doesn’t yelp from pain. Needing to breathe, I shake my head from side to side.

Somehow, this works, and the arm rises. I suck in a breath and am about to grunt in protest when the arm returns. I shake my head immediately. This time, the arm stays.

This goes on for… I don’t know how long because the last time I passed out.

Blunt pain radiates from my buttocks, and I wake. The morning of the next day, my gag is down. A dry strip of meat is shortly resting on my tongue. I have no saliva; my mouth is dry, I realise. “Water,” I say, gasping.

The goblin female shrugs and holds a waterskin to my lips. She chuckles as I finish the first and ask for a second. When I ask for a third, she replaces the gag, kicks me and leaves.

My mouth is still dry, and I stare at my company. Behind her gag, I sense amusement…

After several days of travel and nights of being assaulted, my body functions changed. My urine is dark, thickening, and requires effort to expel. My other is solid dark black lumps, and after a delay the first time, I make noises immediately the next time as the effort after the wait the first time was monumental.

We aren’t travelling freely across the plains, I realise, but we are slowly progressing from what can only be one safe spot to another. Some migrating animals are small enough to hunt, while others are vicious predators and avoided or too large to consider hunting.

The night after my urine and droppings somewhat return to normal, she wiggles her way over to me, and I shake my head from side to side. “No more.” I hope my eyes plead my case.

Instead of an arm in my mouth, I think she is about to kiss me. While deciding if I should accept this intimacy, our foreheads meet instead. Oddly, I can’t decide if I am happy about that or disappointed. My Mistress is dead. Lord Klar, I know, has forgotten me, as my loins no longer burn for him. Lord Torngul, if he hunts me, has failed to find me. Am I really in charge of myself now? The once-torn circles of flesh on my cheeks flush with warmth, and I don’t think so because of past healing.

We camp on the other side of the plains, and during the night, again, our foreheads kiss. This is the third time.

“Can you understand me?” asks a feminine voice inside my head, and I roll away in panic. Where is this voice coming from? Are there goblins near our bedrolls? Have they finally decided that our nighttime antics aren’t antics anymore and whisper from the shadows? They questioned her after the second night of her force-feeding me her blood. She explained to her inquisitor she wanted my blood to be pure. Which apparently is normal because the inquisitor flashed my companion a smile and left.

I steal a glance at my companion. Again, I discern amusement behind her gag.

Cautiously, I roll back, and as I close the distance, she edges towards me, and our foreheads touch.

“Be brave. Trust in the truth I am about to speak.”

I swallow. How is this happening?

“My blood carries special properties, and while you aren’t proficient yet to exercise command, I have been doing so in your stead every time our foreheads touched.”

I push down the need to escape this unknown, this impossible. I remember Duzsia and Luda in combat, each predicting the moves of the other, protecting each other’s vulnerabilities as if by thought. Sister-wives of Lord Klar acting as one. I never questioned the how. I just yearned to do the same thing with my Mistress. Could this strangeness be the same but different… Whatever she has done to me with her blood, I doubt it can be reversed. My only chance of surviving this is to try to understand. I silently pray to Duzsia, the Relentless, and resolve to trust. Several days ago, I accepted death. What is different now? Accepting the unknown? Which one is the scarier, I wonder?

“This is good. I can sense the panic leaving your mind. Duzsia the Relentless? Who is she?”

I concentrate and think about the words. “My former Mistress, who is now dust, and I don’t know why.”

“What I am about to reveal will pain you, but I hope by doing so, you will trust me because why would I admit anything distressing to you?”

I nod and feel stupid as our foreheads briefly lose contact.

“I am responsible for the death of your Mistress because I didn’t think through all the consequences of my purpose.”

Her purpose? Is this related to the fate she mentioned to the goblins? Then, my mind freezes when she continues.

“Duzsia the Relentless will return to her husband, Lord Klar. Maybe not in this life, but the next. You have my word.”

She allows me time to recover. “Next life?” I share with her.

“We are getting too far ahead. My blood has purified your body. You are faster, stronger, and more resilient than you can imagine. With training, you can develop yourself further. For now, I have diverted my blood to develop your mind so we can chat. Over the next day, I concentrate and try to reach for my mind. Imagine my blood helping you to grow this ability. Fail until you succeed.”

I don’t have time to reply as she rolls away. Is this a test? I shuffle closer. Air escapes my lungs, and I try to breathe in and fail.

“You are too friendly. No more now. Every time you get too close to each other, I will kick,” says a goblin I have never seen before.

My watering eyes again catch the amusement behind her gag. I rage. Bitch, I name her. You knew I shouted at her, projecting my feeling of betrayal. You could have warned me!

“Then you wouldn’t have been able to develop so quickly.”

She is back inside my head, and we are at least a body length apart. I chew on my gag momentarily, trying to digest this lesson.

“What is your plan, then?”

Her eyebrows wiggle. “Did you try to tell me something or ask a question?”

I urge her blood to strengthen my mental voice, uncertain if this will work. Taking a breath, I cast my thought to her, “What is your plan, then?”

She shakes her, and I close my eyes, wondering what to do. The words fail until you succeed flash in my mind.

“I caught your frustration, then. So, you can project your emotions, which is a good first step. Your strength of mind and will are important. There is no explanation of how this works. This is magic. You simply imagine an outcome. We both need sleep, and your body needs to commit your learnings so far to memory. So, sleep. We have another day, another wolf ride to look forward to.”

As a child warrior, I would practice several drills with a spear and shield until my arms failed me. Then I would assume the position, and narrow lengths of sapling would strike across my shoulders. My arms would find a deep reserve to continue. When my Mistress taught me about weapons, I learnt forms, which would eventually build into warrior stances. We built each new form on the one before it. I would repeat the form until I could perform it without thinking.

As she has said, can magic be as simple as imagining a result? What have I learnt? She forced me night after night to drink her blood. Her blood, the key, allowed me to use this thing she called magic. There was no mind-to-mind communication initially. Once our foreheads touched, she manipulated her blood inside me to listen for magic and could form words inside my head shortly after. My replies were words in my head. I don’t think I created them in her head, so she must have read my thoughts. She can read my powerful feelings but not my words at a distance. She could still form words inside my head at a distance, though. How? Does she connect somehow to her blood inside my body?

She said I must concentrate and reach for her mind. Imagine her blood helping by developing my mind. I need to touch her forehead. Only then can I try to form my words inside her head? From there, I can concentrate on casting or projecting my words like she did. Yet, there is a flaw in my thinking. Why can’t she read the words I form in my head, my thoughts, from a distance? My mistress taught me that each step I take must be built on the previous step, and I wonder if I am missing one. With these mind exercises, though, I shouldn’t end the day with sore muscles, so that will be a positive.

As I doze off, I remember Lord Klar’s seed and the healing of my cheeks. I unexpectantly whimper as my loins also recall his attentions. Then I feel guilt. Did I just betray my fledgling love for my Mistress? I want to scream, but I don’t. Instead, I recall his instructions. His command to wallow in water, to imagine my cheeks whole once again. Take advantage of the seed he left inside me to repair my torn flesh. I imagined the desired result and achieved it. Is her blood like Lord Klar’s seed, and there is no missing step, something simple like will? Self-determination?

Several more days into our journey, willing for the magic to happen, wasn’t working. My stomach exploded in pain when I tried to meet her forehead with mine. A kick and fading snickering from a guard was the usual result. After my last attempt, my guard staked me out overnight.

Giving up in disgust one night, I woke the following day remembering her words, “I have diverted my blood to develop your mind”, and like that, I realised for her to divert her blood, she needed to have command and control, not simple will or wish. Command and control over what? How would her blood be different to mine?

After a night of questioning my body and blood, I received an answer. We are nanorobots, they said. Their name meant nothing to me, yet I found more and more by calling them by their name. Thousands. I ordered them to repair my body. Improve my hearing. And then the big one, improve my mind like she had done.

Several attempts to reach out to her again failed. What else could I do? More refinement? I ordered more refinement, and they reported an immovable impurity. Dormant nanorobots. What? With the knowledge of contacting her nanorobots, my mind reached out to these dormant nanorobots, activating several and questioning them.

They were of Lord Klug. A god to his worshippers, a curse, or a plague to any non-believers. How would nanorobots of his be in my blood? My body? Blood delivered her nanorobots, and seed delivered them, they proclaim. Lord Klug’s seed, or as I know him, Lord Klar. How can they be one and the same? Why would they deceive me? They are mine. I toss, turn, and break from my sleep, or would my current state be meditation? Luda and Duzsia would, at times, be far away, yet present. I glance at my tent companion, her face in light shadow because of the dying glow from the embers in the firepit. Again, she returns a look of amusement from behind her gag.

Studying Lord Klug’s nanorobots, I know instantly they are superior to her blood nanorobots. They, I deduce, are replicas of replicas. They have diminished over time. How long they don’t know. His are fresh, vital, and even eager. I remember they healed my cheek, and then I ignored them; I stopped willing them. Cursing at myself, I realise now that I have wasted them. Could I have refined myself to be like Duzsia?

I order them to wake up. Her nanorobots outnumber them, which leaves me with a choice. Make her nanorobots dormant and utilise only his, or try to use both simultaneously. As I ponder this choice, the number of his nanorobots increases while the number of her nanorobots decreases. The stronger are converting, the weaker and as this process proceeds, a great tiredness overcomes me.

Pain strikes me awake. I groan and try to roll over. Sharp pain again, this time to my ribs. My lips crack as I try to moan louder. Lifting my fingers to touch my lips, I discover two surprises. My hands are free, and the tips of my dried-out fingertips scrape across my dry lips. I order all my nanorobots to stop. A shudder runs through me. Nanorobots feed on water. When she first fed me her blood, I drank more than my fill and I still yearn for more. I also witnessed my Mistress Duzsia turn to dust. My tent companion said she didn’t realise the consequences of her actions. Did she somehow command my Mistress’ nanorobots to feed? If Lord Klug’s nanorobots weren’t dormant in me then, could I now be dust? I shudder and then celebrate my ignorant luck.

I reach for the waterskin, ignoring the bowl of gruel. The breaking our fast with dried strips of meat was a memory now. Waking several of his nanorobots, I order them to repair my lips, throat, and fingertips. Water. I need more water.

Overnight rain, I attempt to touch her forehead and find myself staked under a cloudy night sky. My nanorobots reaped as much water as possible. Crossing a stream, my head gulps in as much water as possible, as the old wolf carrying me isn’t high enough to keep me clear. This amused the watching goblins, of course, yet I don’t splutter when I surface, which cuts off most of their fun. They think I am stubborn. I know the truth. My companion does the same, yet her wolf is in his prime and holds her clear for most of the crossing.

With the number of his nanorobots increasing, I decided on something bizarre. Why can’t I talk to my wolf?

After several days of multiple attempts, I fail until I succeed. He knows he is dying and will soon be meat in a pot to feed the tribe. If he had a bonded rider, this would not be his fate. If he was stronger, another would bond with him, and he would have the chance to die in a glorious battle. These simple things concern him.

When we cross another stream, I ask him to lose his footing and allow us both to float downstream in the water. He is concerned about drowning, and I answer why. Aren’t you meant to be food soon, anyway?

Lord Klug’s nanorobots convert hers. As my mount tries to keep his head above water, I invite him to bite into my shoulder and drink my blood. He doesn’t understand, yet at my urging and promise of better times, he does and drinks deeply.

The goblins follow us, of course. Loops from ropes try to fall over my wolf’s head, which always seems to move the wrong way. Eventually, they can’t follow as the forest thickens along the banks, and the stream joins others to grow into a river. Now, we float far from either shore. He turns his head about, and I offer my wrists. His gleaming, sharp teeth rip through my bonds, and I sit stride on him. With renewed and growing strength, his feet paddle and control our direction in the slowing current of the meandering river.

A mature wolf in prime condition, he isn’t. He is, instead, a wolf in the best possible condition for one of his age. He requests the grey hair removed from his coat, showing that even old wolves keep a certain level of vanity. No, I say. Let others believe you are old and no threat. Let them only know the truth when your jaws rip out their throats.

By day, he hunts to feed us both, and in between, my nanorobots strengthen us as we follow the river. He has enough strength to ride him, yet I don’t. His looping gait is faster than my striding out, but not excessively. It is more important that him having the strength to allow me to ride him is another surprise we keep to ourselves.

 

---Goblin Crone, Oath Keeper Tribe POV

“Is it wise to burn those words?” he asks.

I study the firepit flames as they curl and consume the two parchments. One granted our freedom to our tribe, and the other permitted safe passage for a time to our rescuers. Lord Klar could not spare a wife or himself to escort us, given the sudden disappearance or, some say, loss of several of them. None could find their corpses, though.

“We are well rid of that valley, and I have no intention of ever leading our tribe back there. I swear.”

He shifts on his haunches and adds kindling to the fire. “Since Sud Guts Ripper is dead, we can’t trade her at Stone Corner because we know no one and nothing about the trading post. So where?”

“I thought north, but it would mean sneaking by several Klugite valleys…” I reply.

He shakes his head. “You know we no longer have the strength to confront the Klugites and High Priestess Rexa?” He spits into the fire. Sizzling is the instant response. “What she is worth will only help our recovery somewhat, but not strengthen us. We have lost too many.”

“I wept myself dry of tears the first time you described the slaughter of so many of us, and even now, we don’t know the reason. The vicious slaughter, while grievous, would make sense if the pair were Klugites. What we have now is much loss because of an unknown enemy for an unknown reason.”

“The hobgoblin and goblin didn’t ever call each other by name, and while under torture, the goblin didn’t make a sound.” He grimaces. “And unfortunately, most hobgoblins look the same to us mercenaries, so our description of her to you didn’t help.”

I tap my chin. “Both would be from the valley, though. Somehow, I feel a certainty about that. If only I could have smelt their blood.”

Hissing and cursing reach my ears, and by the way, Zorottor leaps to his feet; he agrees with my concern. Shortly after, two of our night watch throw a bloody and bruised goblin towards us.

“Sword Fangs’ second son trying to sneak into our camp,” growls one.

Zorottor uses a boot to roll him over. He is alive, but for how long is a mystery. The goblin sucks in air, one puffy eye shut, bruising on his face and cuts on his forearms. His escorts carry no additional weapons. Did he risk his life entering our camp without a sword or spear?

Zorottor crouches down on his haunches and grabs the visitor by the chin. “You have my attention. Speak before you die of blood loss or something else.”

We finally piece together his story between broken sentences and utterances of single words. Klugites are marching south. They aren’t hunting us but are escaping the new Oath Keeper High Priestess of Klug. A most welcome surprise and possible salvation. They are also trying to conceal a secret. With them are the few remaining hobgoblins, with High Priestess Rexa’s blood flowing through their veins because they are escaping her curse. The turning to dust of Klugite worshippers who carry High Priestess Rexa’s blood or either of her son’s blood in their veins. Worse, though, they outnumber us and are heading south.

“What are our options?” I ask.

He nods to the two guards, and they remove the corpse. “We could guess which side of the valley they travel then cross the valley to the opposite side, perhaps even camp in the middle and chance the herds.”

I remain silent. Do we feel lucky?

“Before we meet them, we could try to find a valley, preferably empty, and simply hide.”

I shake my head. “We have many females about to give birth, which I assure you will be difficult. With our mercenary strength, I was hopeful we would take over a settled valley and stay for a while under our own terms.”

“But we are too weak…” he mumbles. “We need to escape the Klugites and join our High Priestess.”

I stare at the flames. “The second son said that the Klugites aren’t one large group but several bands of different sizes, depending on the numbers fleeing from their home valley. Could we ambush them, perhaps?”

“We could, but the risk is, while we ambush one group, another group follows them close enough to join the battle or shortly after the ambush when we are tired. This doesn’t mean we will lose, but we will take losses. I suspect a run of bad luck will end us.”

Climbing to my feet and stretching, I reach a decision. “Find us an empty or near empty valley.” He doesn’t conceal his surprise. “Before the females become too large of belly, we will create a village while our mercenaries protect us and hunt for food. I see no other option.”

He kneels before me, and I am taken aback. “You are the Crone of the Oath Keeper tribe, and we depend on your wisdom. You know some babies, and probably a good number of the mothers will die?”

I wave at him to stand. “I know. Better that than we all perish because of bad luck.”

 

---Lord Klar POV

Both wanted to speak since leaving, and I had had enough of their fidgeting and fear of breaking eggshells around me. Plus, the journey taken so far had worked out my anger.

“What?” I snarl.

“We haven’t picked up her tracks or scent, Lord. What makes you think we can find her and eventually catch up to her?” asks Koria.

“She spoke of falling down the mountain several times, and while not said, I know what craft she made her original journey in and what size cave would be required to conceal it.”

“But we face an entire mountain range…” says Luda.

They were goblin sisters in a former life, but now one is a goblin and the other a massive female hobgoblin. Many ropes loop around Koria while her sister carries necessary rations.

“We will zig-zag across a suitable length of the mountain range, but be smart and avoid sheer drops. Look more for ways down that don’t require anyone to fall to their death. Choose survivable falls that would deal grievous harm, like multiple broken bones and the like.” I notice them both swallow.

Koria replies. I suspect they take turns so my wrath doesn’t fall on one of them. “This could take many days, and even then, we could fail.”

I pause, hands on hips and face both of my wives. “Some of her injuries were grievous, broken bones and horrendous blood loss. The rain won’t be a factor as we climb higher into the mountain range.” I point further up the valley. “The rain comes from the far end of the valley. The mountain arms on either side, especially higher up, aren’t showered by rain. I expect you, Luda, to smell her blood long before either Koria or I, but we will help, of course, with our other senses.”

“That will still take days with no certainty, and if by some lucky chance we find a scent, then what?” asks Luda. “Given the occasional fall, it will break her trail as if she crossed a river.”

I flash her a victory smile. “Yes, but then our search narrows, and with each find afterwards, it will narrow again. Then her trail won’t matter somewhere near the top because we will look for a cave entrance facing this valley.”

“After you sent her away, we thought her unimportant. Why do we look for her now?” asks Koria, taking over from her sister.

I shrug. “Finding her would be acceptable, but I doubt we will. I am sure you noticed like I did, that the door goblin sniffed her scent. She couldn’t restrain her surprise, so I believe the Oath Keeper Tribe has taken an interest in her. What that means, I don’t know. How her blood smelt of Oath Keeper. Again, I don’t know. But!” I hold a finger up. “It doesn’t matter because this mission is about finding her craft, not her.”

“Her craft?” they both ask in unison.

“She didn’t simply materialise out of thin air, now did she, or could she? Have you ever seen such a perfect female hobgoblin in any of your lives? Wouldn’t such an occurrence be something travellers would retell?” They slowly nod. “Where has she grown up for at least early rumours about her beauty not being spread far and wide?”

“Snow is coming, Lord. Do we at least have your word if we don’t find anything by then, we will give up?” asks Koria, out of turn.

I turn away and continue. We left the foothills behind yesterday, and I am eager to climb into the mountains proper. I feel lucky and can’t explain why.

P.S. If you are not reading this chapter for free on Royal Road or Scribble Hub, then the website you are on has stolen my story.