The Master examined his hand, the vibrant immortal flesh seared and no matter the willed effort the scars wouldn’t heal. Drawing his strength back from the Dark Priest a mistake he admitted to himself, the shock of the pain though … never since creation has his body been wracked by such torment. He should’ve suffered through the pain to allow his priest to succeed to gain his freedom. After recovery, then possibly return if he so chooses, at his leisure or not at all … should have been the choices made. The mortals would perish in time … defeatist thoughts, he needed to find rage and cunning, not self-pity, examine the details.

Judge and his Gods abandoned this world and yet the pain, intense sunlight burning flesh and being; demoralising. How do these mortals wield the power of a faded God? The past cannot be changed, only accepted and possibly corrected, the decision to call back his power done, the strange missiles removed and his pain a tolerable ache possibly for the cost of his freedom. Not a good bargain he mused.

The release of the Dark Priest’s horde meant further consequences, imprisonment to continue, laughable really given the perfection of the trap and annoying given a pure accident coupled with his own folly, always advance and destroy, don’t toy with your food. The Dark Priest now distant, the blood link severed with anguish, although the last thought from his servant most definitely focused upon saving his own life, the worm. What about the release of his Master!

He sensed the other two; near and yet entombed, separated by Judge’s edict and totally dismayed. He forced them to listen to him as he instructed them to release their blood and curse their current tomb to make the prison their new coffin. This weakened them further, although better than the alternative.

---

Weakened already from battle with the foolish women in the Cavern, although the Judge Knight a most terrible surprise she listened to her Sire. The battle wounds took a toll on her vitality, nevertheless she spilt blood as instructed to curse the stone coffin prison to become sanctuary. Weakened further for now, given time recovery would be possible, whereas previously slow deterioration until dust. She listened to her Master, hope of recovering her own coffin distant, even if physically close. Her own coffin, the promise of a swift recovery and the return to perfection, an unattainable dream, surely those blood bags would have destroyed the beautifully polished enamelled wood and cushion lined luxury by now; heathens.

Time her ally now, agonisingly slow recovery to her former strength, the persistent scars reminding her destruction ever possible. The gluttonous feeding in the proceeding days a truly inspired circumstance as this alone now fortified her, suggesting the sweet taste of revenge yet possible, she sniffed. Also, inconveniently, she would need a choker for her neck if the scar remained after her next feeding, her smooth skin now blemished and unsightly, which just won’t do.

---

The scar through his chest a permanent tunnel, front to back, an arm and attached fingers fleshless bone. Both sealed, relatively painless and neither healing. A blessed sunlight upon a wielded weapon responsible and perhaps while struck in bat form the holy weapon not as outraged to leave a legacy of unending agony.

Trapped inside a sealed stone coffin, locked away and impotent his anger rose to new heights and like his Master testing the strength of the stone and similarly finding defeat. Humiliated, fallen low he awaited his fate. His first thought be on guard for opportunity, his jailors would want to destroy him and yet time passed, and they didn’t. Each passing day his strength ebbed, each passing night his recovery meagre, hibernation as an option entered his mind. The risk, total surprise, the benefit recovery over time.

His Master ordered a different solution, the sacrifice of blood to transform this stone prison into a sanctuary. A great depletion of strength initially and then quicker recovery over time. Without his Master’s permission he entered hibernation as well, the recovery quicker again and although a defenceless state, the effort required and resultant noise for anyone to break into his tomb to attack would wake him with enough time to greet them with vengeance on his mind.

---

Satisfied his followers would remain alert and slowly recover the Master’s thoughts turned inward. Not strong, wounds unable to heal and a painful reminder from each, every time he moved; he sank his consciousness and body into hibernation. He needed to conserve his remaining strength, no life, not even a rat could be drained of blood and the hunger would soon drive him to folly and madness. Unfortunately, hibernation not a solution, his body would continue to weaken albeit slowly, as his feeding habit would catch up to him, a minimum of one hearty victim each month, oft times two, now none. Patience, another would need to release him, and acceptance of this truth took much petulant thought to reach, nevertheless, he did. The option to shed his blood to create a sanctuary within the cavern still a way off, his reserves not yet depleted enough to reach that critical point of no return.

---

After weighing up the risk she decided to hibernate although each attempt failed, unable to reach the required meditative state. Searching for an explanation, certain she didn’t glimpse the sun or spy any daylight, given the snowing overcast conditions in Death Season, spending the day being carried inside her coffin by her followers until crashing past the Cavern Entrance and into shadow. She tried contacting the Master, silence? Hibernating perhaps? Her eyes darted about the six sides of her prison now sanctuary bereft of ideas. Without hibernation she would wither and decay much faster, rapidly burning through her wonderful gluttony instead of preserving it. The only thing holding her evil to the present, the wonderful orgy of feeding before this ill-fated journey, the memory of which fresh and fantastic, her first bloodbath and now possibly, also her last.

Trembling hands reached to her face trying to rub her panic away. She must escape, taste blood again, how? A tickle of pain, fingers tested, ouch! Gently now her fingers tested the limits. A large bump on her head painful to touch, how? Why unhealed? Before being sealed in the tomb, she remembered. A panicked change to bat form and then smashing into an invisible wall and stunned back to human form. The bat form closer to mortality, could she be suffering from concussion? Ridiculous! Ordinary bruising and cuts always healed … the invisible wall then, what properties? A great magic construct? Judge Knight mysticism? She swallowed without real need. This invisible wall held the Master. Not worldly, divine, one of Judge’s edicts … not permission entrance, nothing to do with the sun … crossing running water? How inside a Cavern?

---

Dione hurried down the passageways, free at last to be one with her stallion. She did her duty, congratulating Lysisa with a brief hug, leaving Niobe and Latona to giggle and pamper the new Initiate. Dione not totally forgiving though, remembering Lysisa at the wall supporting Niobe in delaying her pursuit of the Dark Priest.

The presence of the Goblin Sisters on the Northern Wall surprising, although who else really. One faced outward, observing over the wall, one faced back, inward. Why? The third missing? No not missing, huddle up against the wall … sleeping? Dione slowed to a jog and then a walk.

“Welcome sister,” said Jocasta.

Dione jumped, unaware and caught off guard concentrating on the obvious; the small street urchin in a new or at least recently excavated hidey hole near the wall.

“We apologise sister, we thought to protect her like goblin, hide well.”

Dione not sure of the name of the Goblin Sister, who stood eye to eye with Dione and now physically intimidating, hopeful the smile genuine. While not staring eye to eye, Dione refused to lower her head in their presence as one of the Ladies Three, all sisters owed her deference and these no different.

The second spoke without turning around or acknowledgment, her eyes firmly fixed on the snow covered Cleft. “Welcome Sister Dione, we are trusted by Mistress to stand watch over the Northern Wall and will help you.”

Dione passed the Goblin Sister who looked back towards the Cavern Entrance and couldn’t stay her curiosity.

“Why do you watch behind?”

“We are Goblin, we watch all ways for danger.”

Except one thought Dione. “What about above, the Stone Curtain Wall?”

“We decorated it!” The two Goblin Sisters and Jocasta broke out in laughter, the third rolled over drawing a fur around tight.

In response to Dione’s questioning look, Jocasta replied, “Many a loose walking dead husk rests up there, easily dislodged by the unweary, sister.”

Dione’s arms flung up in the air. “What if they walk?”

Jocasta stared at Dione’s display, speechless. Sweetears calmly responded.

“They are few and warning is the most important.”

No other responses, no reaction and Dione speechless, looking from sister to sister.

“At least tell your Mistress,” said Dione, who then approached the wall intending to … well dramatically leave until the drop proved greater than her courage even with her stallion’s bare back poised below. A rope whipped around her waist while considering her options and about to react when a voice settled her reaction.

“We lower you down, saddle and backpack, all alright sister.”

Dione glanced back, the third Goblin Sister, now awake, apparently.

---

Fresh snow fell in the intervening bells, a clean spread of white before Dione and her stallion. The churn as a consequence of the walking dead created a slight depression in the land and with the layer of snow the illusion of a white road rolled out before Dione, like a welcome of sorts. With caution her stallion struck out along the road, which proved remarkably firm, the mud-slush underneath hardening perhaps.

Her stallion reached an easy sustained gait, Dione’s heart light with joy, away from the Cavern, upon her stallion and in pursuit of evil, an evil which wouldn’t escape, revisit and inflict any hurt.

---

Light spilt down from the Training Room through the open trapdoor, Clymene having climbed the steps first.

The lightly frosted legs behind the steps called to Astera. A task yet to be completed she thought, her first step upon the stairs poised and finally returning to the cavern floor. Perhaps the Goblin Sisters could add them to any errant walking dead corpses to form a final pyre.

“Mistress?” called Clymene.

“We need to dispose of our intruders, perhaps the Goblin Sisters could be asked?”

Clymene poked her head through the trapdoor. “No Mistress, I will volunteer, as will Ismene and our new Initiate. You have posted the Goblin Sisters on the North Wall and I haven’t seen any sisters more thankful. They believe you trust them with our defence and to bring them back to fetch and carry so soon, well not … proper.”

“Yes, I blame my tired self and as you say Clymene.” Astera cast her eyes upon the stairs, preparing to climb.

Clymene catching Thyia with a look. Thyia confirming with a quick nod, while assisting Astera. Clymene allowed one Mistress to tire, she wouldn’t permit another and at least on this occasion the explanation plain and obvious as most of the sisters which held the line on the South Wall still slept, only the Mistress and Thyia up and about busy with duties.

---

While waiting for Lysisa, Clymene and Ismene dragged the frozen bodies out from behind the Top Cavern to House set of stairs. At Clymene’s turn for under arms, Ismene lingered, a double take look at the intruder they just deposited into the lantern light.

Clymene’s arm around her shoulder startled Ismene causing her to jump slightly and place a hand on her chest.

“Don’t do that sister!”

“Do what? You stood here instead of helping over there.”

Ismene’s eyes now fixated, studying the face of the first corpse, Clymene’s head adjacent and mimicking Ismene retaining an arm around her shoulders.

“I know her, well more accurately, know of her,” whispered Ismene.

“Care to elaborate sister?”

Ismene straightened, the glued-on Clymene with her, certain she could place the surprised, light blue face of the corpse.

“This is Pania, third daughter, fourth child of the Baron of Water Watch currently married to the Captain of the City Guard. After months of trying to arrange a marriage, suddenly the pieces all fell together.”

“How does a lowly daughter of a minor Lord become involved with evil?”

“Perhaps by making a deal to advance? Come let us drag out the rest!” Ismene’s eyes danced with conspiratorial eagerness as she dashed to the row of corpses.

---

“Sisters?”

Clymene and Ismene, looked up from their grim examinations, the six bodies lined up, side by side, a couple of lanterns for general light, while Clymene and Ismene held their own shoving them at the faces of each corpse in turn.

“Come in, we have only been able to recognise one of the intruders, well Ismene did, I have no idea.”

“Yes, a third person would be useful, if only to stop Clymene asking a multitude of useless questions,” grumbled Ismene, finishing with a sweet smile, ensuring Clymene noticed.

Lysisa parked the two trolleys and bent over the nearest corpse, a male. Her scream of delight and clapping of hands ended when both Clymene and Ismene flashed their lanterns in her direction.

“Do tell,” asked Clymene wide-eyed at the tuff of something in Lysisa’s hand.

Following Clymene’s eyes to her hand, Lysisa smiled awkwardly and patted the evidence, ‘back on’.

“A Spearmen in the Duke’s Guard when my sister and I …” Her voice hardened a little, the pain of loss only submerged, never gone. “We were presented to the Temple to finish our Seer Training, his chin displaying a fresh scar, pink skin, so the wound still healing.”

Clymene raised her eyebrows. “And the clutch of hair?”

“I needed to be sure, he disguises his scar now with a beard all around and needs to fill in the scar.”

Ismene tapped her chin. “You would only need to change your appearance if your past too well known, or perhaps your deeds.”

“Oh yes sister,” said Lysisa, a small shiver cascading down her body, able to call another sister, once again belonging. “He would insult or shame to force others to duel and when his reputation proved a barrier he would step in for others. This soon to be stinking corpse responsible for my brother’s death after a recent promotion.” Her words finishing with a hard-edged anger, mixed with remorse and triumph. She last waved good-bye to her brother when five Death Seasons old and given a day to mourn when told of his death ten years later, family is still family.

“Yes, I see the plotting now. The Baron’s daughter married the Captain before he became Captain, rising when the incumbent met death in a dual!” Ismene now clapping and smiling, caught up in unravelling the conspiracy forgetting her sensitivities.

“Did we miss a celebration, sisters?” asked Nysa stepping around the trolleys on her way to the stairs, pausing to look at the corpses lying at attention.

“Sort of, our House intruders, we have a duellist and a social climber so far,” announced Clymene proudly.

Otonia chortled, flapping a hand in the general direct of a corpse, a mature female. Clymene and Ismene held their breath.

“That poor excuse for a merchant supplied cloth and nick-knacks to the Troupe for years and then one season announced she now only supplied to the Castle, in fact the Duchess herself, surrounding herself with airs and graces when she did, us lowly folk no longer fit to wipe her shoes, so good riddance!”

“Sisters, this old man is a runaway or perhaps hired help for the intruders, Zoe slew him with an arrow through the neck, an amazing release, pinned him to the wooden gate,” said Lysisa.

Nysa stepped between the last two corpses and dropped to her haunches, glancing at one, a male and then the other, a female.

Voice high and excited, Clymene asked, “What sister?”

“Do you think there is a family resemblance?”

Clymene shone her lantern on the male, while Ismene helpfully shone her lantern on the other, a female. Both nodding after several back and forth looks to be sure.

“The Village Priest escorted me to the City when twelve Death Seasons young to witness a Judge Knight Apprentice choosing. Country bumpkin, wide-eyed and impressionable I took in every sight and every sound, the people and their frantic racing about, including these two.” Nysa dropped to her buttocks, arms wrapping around knees.

“He a pageboy in the service of the Duke, she a servant in the Duke’s household, nine years have passed and their faces now those of adults and perhaps lured into evil on the promise of great reward, given the change in fortune of the others lined up beside them,” finished Nysa, eyes closed, chin scrunched up.

Kyra offered a hand. “Up Judge Knight Adept, they made their choice as we must.”

Nysa raised her head and accepted the offer. “So much younger than the rest …”

“Well these are people who will be missed, so we must ensure all clothing and weapons are taken with them to the pyre,” said Clymene, her eyes meeting Ismene and Lysisa in conformation.

The six sisters packed the corpses, three to each wagon, Ismene having fetched rope to secure them. Nysa, Kyra and Otonia climbed the stairs to bathe and then break their fast, their sleep extending into the second half of the day, while Ismene and Lysisa piloted the wagons to the Main Cavern and beyond. Clymene trudged back to the Kitchen, Ismene insisting as a Seer always needs to be in attendance within the House, especially since Astera slept.

+++

The Chieftain told him of this great responsibility, explained the importance of the tribute to the clan and with those thoughts in his mind, after examining the unusual snow drift, Crookedtooth almost lost his water. The night dark covering the flush of green upon his skin, although unable to conceal the flush of warmth from his six companions. Fortunately, they, like him understood the implications.

The seven, bent low to the ground, scurried across the snow covered Cleft deliberately avoiding the white path. The snow blanketed path a consequence. The cause, the trampling of a multitude, in this case, walking dead perhaps two or three nights ago, which they guessed sallied forth from the Dark Cavern. Such an army of destruction released; the Goblins quailed.

Crookedtooth chewed empty mouthed at the wall. He looked back to check, the open-mouthed faces told him the wall an addition, in a month. What of the Northern opening, could a wall be in place there? Why would you protect one entrance to leave another open?

“I check,” whispered Bloodeye, shrinking down further gliding across the snow, hugging the Stone Curtain Wall.

Crookedtooth nodded, the consent given long after Bloodeye disappeared from their night vision. Trying to comprehend the meaning of everything witnessed, with an absent wave, a companion snuck forward and hefted the tribute bag into the “hole-in-the-wall”. Listening for the clunk, none. Crookedtooth and his companion exchanged stares, until they both stepped back and squatted, the other Goblin noticeably shaking. The four with them pressed their bodies down further, shifting snow and creating a shallow hole to hide in.

He waved the first back and once in retreat, waved to the next to join him. After a moment he looked back, a Goblin either side trying to push and handle the next companion forward. A threatening hiss from Crookedtooth silenced the struggle while he swiftly advanced on the recalcitrant, grabbed the faintheart around the neck and pulled him forward. The sooner they delivered the tribute the sooner they could leave, and this single objective granted him resolve.

As breathing became difficult the captive nodded his head. Crookedtooth used his other appendage to grab around the back of the neck before releasing the throat and driving him forward to the drop-off. Again, the hole swallowed the tribute and silence.

The third witnessing the first and second survive or perhaps fearful of Brokentooth, edged his way forward, eventually an arm reached out, grabbing his shirt front and tugged him forward to face his fear. The third tribute fell without a thump.

“Another wall.” Bloodeye breathless, trying to gulp for air.

Crookedtooth scratched his head. “Walls? But great army marches?”

“Few remain, fear attack?” Bloodeye shifting his bobbing head in front of Crookedtooth to gain his attention.

“Tributes, no thump when dropped.”

A slow whistle issued from between Bloodeye’s teeth. “Walls, Army leave, drop quiet, perhaps special metal change tribute?”

“No like, good this last,” said Crookedtooth, flicking his head for them to be on their way.

Bloodeye placed a clawed hand upon Crookedtooth’s shoulder. “A horse and maybe rider leave Northern Wall, follow snow path, chase?”

Shaking his head to dismiss the request, he suddenly stopped. Why the horse and perhaps rider leave? To follow? Perhaps attack Cavern and finding emptied now chasing Army. Scout? For who? Crookedtooth smashed closed fists upon his skull, thinking hard! Tell Chieftain quick, he then decides.

“Chieftain.”

Crookedtooth sprinted away from the Dark Cavern, heedless of discovery, his six companions hurrying to catch up and keep pace. The stale air of the home tunnels drew him.

---

Eyes shut and dozing Sweetears recalled the activity required each month. The Tribute Drop measured their growth, the crawl way needed widening and the anteroom required additional excavation to account for their gain in weight and size. Muscle mass and definition from working the stone, height from their bones straightening from eating meat and when they could bone, occasionally Clymene would gift them leftover bones from smoked meat after the elder chatted to her.

Each night, two sleep, one listen. The antechamber floor, square and smooth, a few furs thrown down sufficed as beds. They fitted the stone door during the day, their bronze circles hanging from their ears to gather sunlight if possible and their Mistress gave them all other time off! The collection of the tribute a duty, although not personally important. At first detection of movement or low speech, the Goblin Sister on watch quietly woke her two sisters.

Laying quiet, bodies tense, their ears tuned into the Goblin speech of the visitors. They missed hearing their own language and would consume it in silence, the Goblins delivering the tribute invariably chatting. The usual chat about the tribute, returning home, the journey and some annoying relatives or friends missing this visit. Instead fear and awe about the walls and theories about the walking dead. The Goblin Sisters hearts sank a little when they didn’t speak about home and then hearing the news the visitors wouldn’t return until next Death Season …

While the humans began to treat them as equals and they felt a loyalty to them, certainly thankful for not only saving their lives but also making them strong, the three Goblins still missed their birthplace even if it wanted them or expected them to be dead. Teenagers or the Goblin equivalent tended to become homesick and the three Goblin Sisters no different.

Prettynose wiped a tear away. “Stupid males, no news and fearful instead.”

“Goblins always afraid, it is our way,” said Bluefingers as she wrapped an arm around her sister.

Sweetears kept silent, shortly attracting the attention of her two sisters who stood side by side waiting for the smartest of the three to speak.

“They also talk dumb, while we talk human …”

Prettynose sobbed and then sniffed, straightening. “We no longer Goblin? Are we human now?”

“Well our skin isn’t green, and your nose is pretty like human, not pretty like goblin …”

“You think my nose is a pretty human nose?”

A naked Bluefingers, clapped her hands and then rested them on her hips. “Of course, and look at yourselves or me, human breasts.” Her hands cupped and lifted them slightly, attachment to a barrel like chest not allowing much freedom.

Prettynose likewise cupped hers, bigger and attached to an athletic body allowing more movement. Sweetears pushed back Bluefingers’ dark hair to expose both ears, which remained the same size while losing the obvious top point, although not entirely human. The face she examined filled out and rounded; the sunken, skin hung on bone look gone. Long oval slanted eyes remained, the truest tell-tale facial feature of their origins.

Point proven, Bluefingers dressed. Sweetears knew, as did her sisters their bodies changed and until now silently accepted the results, each probably wondering if another would raise the obvious. Eavesdropping on the Goblins delivering the tribute confirmed their clipped Goblin speech childish and yet … Sweetears wiped a developing tear from her eye.

“If we aren’t Goblin anymore and not entirely Human, then what are we?” asked Prettynose, now finally finished playing with her … assets.

---

The Sisters delivered the three tribute bags to Ismene, entering the House to do so, welcomed, with Clymene offering a pre-dawn meal containing bones. The bags handed over without inspection and while probably containing wealth, there could also be recognisable items within, which their tribe decided to surrender and seeing them would make missing home even more real.