Childlike squeals and whines break our one on one.

Shoat boars scamper about the massacre site, slipping in the entrails and sliding in the black blood of the fallen goblins. The goblins rush for their spears, a couple end up on their behind skating through the mess, all give chase, howling as they follow the small prey into the underbrush. I imagine the thought of hunting something smaller than themselves appealing and I suspect the mother sow not too far away … I am unable to caution them …

A goblin sails into the air, the broken body arching awkwardly through the lower canopy of the forest until crashing to the ground out of sight. The goblins to a one, cease their hooting, terror screaming instead.

“The sow,” he says.

I nod, “Yes.” My thoughts turn to boar farming in this moment of crisis, the capture of a sow and her shoats would provide a good start, although I suspect this isn’t the time or the place. I reach for a discarded spear. Stout wooden shaft, topped with a copper or bronze pointed head, simple and functional, although unsuitable for boar hunting, or any large animal hunting where the prey tends to charge.

Abrupt, sharp shouts of panic and howls of pain lead me to a new battleground of trampled undergrowth and flesh. Flecks of black goblin blood from bludgeoned bodies paint the green and browns of the forest floor as the sow rages, grunting. The tusks of a sow are generally smaller than the male although more than enough to grind down on fleshless goblin limbs, while her weight ample to knock over and then trample the newly fallen.

I ensure a thick tree trunk is between me and her. Her size though, large enough for three goblins to ride, dominates the bloody arena and she snorts in defiance as broken goblins crawl or limp from her presence. Streaks of crimson blood ooze from multiple wounds, a heat haze emanates from her fine brown hair while her barrel chest expands and contracts to suck in air. Her dark eyes survey her new domain and fix upon me. A front trotter strikes the ground cover. My hands grip the spear shaft in response.

She doesn’t charge, instead, dances one way and then the other to counter my shielding movement around the tree trunk. Two goblins remain, their caved-in chests declaring them dead, their companions, long gone and the Hunter Hobgoblin long absent, never entering the fray in fact. She grunts defiant and then like an unstoppable force bulldozes into the undergrowth. The moment after is always the most dangerous – when you think yourself safe. With my back now to the tree trunk, I stay alert, scanning the forest and listening as the cracking of branches and thrashing of leaves fade away. Only when I confirm a gentle breeze is responsible for disturbing the upper branches of the trees and soft birdsong agrees with my assessment does my breathing settle. Given a moment of reflection, I quickly realise the danger to myself minimal in truth, a classic Mexican stand-off, the sow reaching the same conclusion long before me.

I push off from the tree trunk and backtrack to the first hunting site. The carcass of the boar lays half prepared, bugs and flies crawling over the feast. I assume the hunt ended in haste and I am now alone. The sun of this world is now high in the sky and shafts of light find their way through to the forest floor, the beauty of the moment not lost upon me. A slight change in wind direction and the stink of death assails my nostrils breaking the magic. Yes, time to go.

First, one of my goblins and then others jump and point in my direction as I stride along the trail and out from under the forest eaves and into the clear bright sunlight of the day. They herd before me, their long nose faces looking up expectant, several step around me, nodding to the rest.

“What?” I ask.

Their green faces lower, several glancing sideways, some shuffling their soft boots until a fit of bravery strikes one.

“Boss, the hunters said you dead again, for good this time,” he whispers.

“Well perhaps they hope, but no. We have work to do. Any been to the village up the valley?” I fling an arm out pointing further up the valley.

Lots of slow side to side shaking of heads. Their expressions not what I would call full of enthusiasm.

Before I lead them off, I grab a water skin from the nearest and drink my fill before handing it back. “Follow.”

As I stride out through the grass, spear in one hand, a biscuit-scone is placed in the other. I nod to my goblin benefactor and take a bite. Plain yet I suspect filling with little or no nutritional value.

The distance to the village is deceiving and we camp overnight in the long grass beside the dirt packed trail. I note my goblin companions are comfortable with the situation, gathering firewood and sharing out our modest trail rations, allowing me to select first. I wave away the offer, which surprises them. The memory of the blood and gore is still fresh.

---

The goblins decamp at dusk and our journey resumes. The trail crosses numerous streams, depths and widths varying and require caution to cross safely. The goblins are wary of the water, and I surprise them once again by assisting them to cross when and where needed. I suspect my past Hob self would’ve simply marched on … survival of the fittest, losing any goblins along the way acceptable.

The setting sun leads us to the village, although a stream running down the centre of the valley does just as well. Several brooks and creeks feed this stream from North and South, drainage for the entire valley which then accumulates to form a river which falls over the cliff face above our village. This river then continues South Easterly to define the Southern boundary of the farm. I would need to follow to make sure, of course, yet I don't doubt my analysis.

An acrid smell hits my nostrils on a warm breeze. Smelting. I expect the ringing of metal on metal, the necessary hammering when blacksmithing and weapon crafting and instead there is none. The hubbub of village life greets us with fetching and carrying and the smells of cooking well underway from preparing the evening meal.

I wonder if an overnight stay would be possible when several village goblins stop in their tracks, eyes focusing upon me, arms slowly rising and fingers pointing in my direction. As if an invisible signal is sent to them all, buckets drop, and goblins flee as fast as their legs will carry them finding nearby cottages and slamming the doors shut once safely through.

My goblins begin to snicker.

“What?” I ask no one in particular.

“Boss they think you die and come back for them …”

I pause on the cusp of asking if they insulted me or not before my death but perhaps there is another reason. I could always say my ‘death’ caused loss of memory although that would be suggesting weakness. The reaction of the village is enough to suggest they could owe the former me something … I simply need to tease out the exact nature of their debt.

Their collection of cottages rest on either side of a climbing meandering main path through the centre of the village while the headwaters of the stream leading to the village rush down the northern side. As we enter the village proper, I notice another Hobgoblin, like a shepherd although his flock of goblins crowd behind him, march with haste down the path. I also note the wringing of his hands, a good sign.

He is a smith then, the stains upon his full-length leather apron plain. I wait as he approaches not wanting to fully invade his village uninvited.

“Klug, I welcome you. We thought you … argh … well dead?” he stammers, while nodding his head the once.

He is the first to call me by name, interesting and useful. Names have power and he uses mine to form or reform a bond or at very least a closeness.

“I am, as you can see, not dead and arrive to claim what you owe.”

He looks back over his flock and some unknown message is given as several goblins run off in response. Not an insult then, a payment owed.

“The copper seams have almost run dry, and we need them to seek others, surely you understand …”

“I am due what I am owed, otherwise how can I keep the farm running? No food means we all starve.” My train of thought a guess although I feel reasonably confident there must exist some sort of bartering system between villages. The evidence? This village clearly smelts ore and with nothing but long grass instead of crops surrounding the inhabitants, Klug’s farm would need to supply their food. So, what would Klug earn in exchange?

He nods a fatal acceptance and waves me forward. His goblins shuffle aside as we stroll side by side up the rising path until we reach a flat. The ground almost smooth, except for the occasional shallow divot from either pick or shovel. On the far side, an absolute cliff face hewed out from the rising ground. Seven female goblins stand in a line before the cliff face, their noses exceptionally long, all with a covering of dirt and grime, enough to blot out their natural green skin colour. While difficult to discern, their clothing nothing but a filthy leather loincloth, their breasts dirt-encrusted bumps. The filth didn’t hide one additional fact, the healthy quantity of flesh on their body and limbs. That single fact alone illustrating their worth to this village.

“Can we offer … anything else? They are needed to sniff for the copper, perhaps they remain until another vein is discovered and we … want else do you need?”

The heavy breathing of my goblins distracts me, and I spare them a glance. They have tents in their pants and even slobber on their lips, eyes transfixed upon the seven. So not the no nose then, perhaps the healthy flesh? The Hunter Hobgoblin told me of my duty and the fact the male goblins are only practising, do these same goblins believe a healthy female will ensure they conceive? If factual, there would be no pressure on me to farm …

I place a finger upon my chin, tapping. In truth, I do have a need but can’t appear to be too eager.

“What other females do you have? These won’t be instead, just until you find another copper seam,” I stress.

His face brightens, the tusks on either side of his mouth on display. “Fetch others,” he shouts and waves his arms about. A village goblin offers me a stool, which I accept and plant my bottom on. Shortly after the village Hobgoblin and I sit before a makeshift table eating quality valley gruel, prepared I suspect with the best of the grain. My goblins sit cross-legged upon the ground nursing their bowls eating a lumpy coarse version of valley gruel. The sun sets and night begins before another line-up shuffles into view, the original seven long gone, fleeing in fact from the ‘stage’.

These are skinny, yet clean wearing several rough furs poorly stitched together trying to maintain their modesty. Nose length ranges from slight to just bearable. I shake my head from side to side and slide my almost empty bowl away.

“You can feed them, and they still make goblins …” His voice a sick bleating.

“But ugly …”

“Two for each and you keep them all. When the copper is found then also keep the seven.”

The torch light casts shadows about his poker face, his voice though betrays his desperation.

“Three for each.” His eyes go wide, perhaps I have overstepped, never mind time to return to reasonable. “Or … spear points?”

“Spear points?” he asks. “Does the Hunter send you to do his bidding?”

“No, not exactly. I want to test a different spear point for him.”

He grabs the wooden cup before him and drains the water before slamming it down. “You doubt my skill?”

I smile and wait for his angst to ebb. “I am relying upon your skill.”

“Explain.” He releases his crushing grip on the cup.

“The spear point needs a crossbar,” I answer while bringing my spear between us sliding the edge of my hand crossways about where I want the cross piece behind the spear point.

“Why?” His voice calm, questioning to understand.

“When the Hunter hunts boar, the animal, even if dead runs up the shaft of the spear usually crushing or if still alive goring the wielder.”

His eyes cast about him while smiling. “Goblins have always died in hunts, why change? You care for them now or something?”

“The more that die, the more I have to farm, and the more spears you need to craft as the Hunter Hob doesn’t retrieve any from the dead for the next hunt.” The deadpan delivery of my words perfect, the inference, this is to your benefit as well.

“Two for each, you keep, three spear points way you want and when copper found only four.”

“One, two or three for each doesn’t matter, more mouths to feed before they can breed, six spear points and when copper found only three,” I counter, then take a sip of water. Alcohol would be better, perhaps I need to find some bees and ferment mead from their honey.

He ponders my offer in silence. I notice his eyes counting his number of goblins and I suspect in the back of his mind weighing up the cost of feeding them and their worth. The males he needs to mine the copper. The seven, perhaps he has more, probably not, are needed to find new copper veins. The other females though how many does he really need to cook, fetch, and carry to keep him in the lifestyle he desires and the male goblins working full time?

“As you say, three for each as some may die or not birth, ten spear points and when copper found only two.”

So, his offer is three other females and two spear points for one of the seven. Excellent. I intend to trade him back some of the farm’s more well-endowed female goblins for the same exchange rate.

My hands rub my face while I murmur, “So many to feed …”

“I will work through the night to finish the spear points so you can be away at first light.”

Also, I suspect so I can’t change my mind in the clear light of day, my dithering perhaps a worry for him and the unexpected prospect of keeping five of his long nose females too good to give up.

Pushing back the stool as I stand, I hold out my hand. He climbs to his feet and clasps my hand in both of his and we shake, the deal done.

He gives up a shout and all the village break out into celebration; instruments playing, coarse singing and wild dance. He ushers me away until I need no further direction, the arid smell of copper smelting my guide. The smithing area has no walls, open to all, enhancing airflow to benefit the smith as well as the stone and clay forge. My sightseeing falls well short of the actual forge instead we stand before a workbench where he hands me a hardened glazed clay replica of the spear point currently affixed to my spear.

I turn the artefact over in my hands and shortly before I question his reason, he hands me a palmful of soft clay.

“Add your crosspiece.”

I smile and roll a portion of the clay into a cylinder shape and place it across the wooden shaft of my spear, a healthy arm length below the fixing place of spear point socket to the wood shaft. I need the spear to sink deep into the flesh of the animal and yet stop well short of the wielder.

“I will meet you halfway, I will lengthen the spear socket and add the side wings directly, so the spear point is still one piece.” As I am about to open my mouth, he holds up his hand to stay my words. “Each shaft thickness isn’t the same and you would need to beat the loop of the separate wings if the shaft too small or find another shaft if too large. By adding to the spear socket, the shaft is already being tapered to fit and as one piece the wings shouldn’t slip or fail after multiple uses.”

I nod and slap him friendly like on his shoulder.

“Go. I will need to modify a mould, but once done the casting won’t take long and I have trained my goblins to finish anything once cast.”

I stroll out of his workshop and into the night. The warmth from his forge still wisps about me while flickering torch light provides enough illumination so I don’t stumble and fall flat on my face on the slope of the path. Instead of returning to the village meeting place I stare up and observe the multitude of stars. If I survive this planet what awaits me upon my return? True death or promises kept and a chance for revenge?

“Lord Farmer Hob? … Lord Farmer Hob …”

A sweet voice breaks me from my false hope and as I lower my eyes, I glimpse the outline of a retreating face perfectly framed in a nearby cottage window. I imagine a perfect beauty, although knowing in truth nothing like that exists on this planet. Still, I am drawn as I know I am sinking, the first sign, my concern for the slaughter of the Hunter’s goblins, the second ‘inventing’ the hunting spear for them and future generations my rationalisation thin, this valley needing more, not fewer inhabitants. Yet hunter-gatherers require vastly more area to support themselves than farming. Farming will expand villages to towns, towns to cities. Civilisation.

My steps are heavy, the doorway in shadow, yet visible, findable. I am crossing a line … maybe the owner of the voice wishes to chat to get to know the real me, who I am, I try to presume …

I stand in the doorway peering into the darkness, a short dark shape closing in, swaying before me …

“Do you farm away from your Farm, Lord?” The voice non-goblin like, smooth as silk, the invitation plain.

The scent of copper ore reaches my nose. Confirmation enough. One of the seven …

“Lord, do you wish light to examine me first? I assure you I am of good stock and planting your seed in me will not be wasted.”

“No,” I yelp, with a fraction too much haste. “I wouldn’t want to know who in case your Lord Hobgoblin is offended by my planting.”

Tinkling laughter her response. How can this creature be an ugly long nosed goblin?

“You are the Farmer are you not? He is the Smith.”

The Hunter hunts, the Village Head administrates … this would make for a thin gene pool … a soft hand in mine interrupts my idle thought drawing me into the cottage proper. This same hand then transfers my hand to rest upon a handful of soft nubile breast and firm nipple.

I don’t wish to bump noses, to do so would break more than the illusion so I spin her around and bend her over.

---

After … I grab her discarded loincloth, a course cloth instead of leather, to clean up. She did offer, but again the nose and I shudder.

“Wait here Lord, I will fetch the next.”

Her retreating bare feet slap upon the stone cottage floor. The outline of the open doorway visible under the faint torch light as I stare upon her disappearing shape bereft of a response. Six more then? My pecker is once again keen so who I am to deny while the illusion lasts.

---

“Wake, your spears are ready, and the day has broken.”

Rubbing my eyes, the Hobgoblin Smith is gone before I can answer. This is becoming a habit …

Morning sunlight streams into the one-room cottage, the lingering smell of sex remains and as I sniff for the source I only need to look down. The bottom half of my body is naked, and my pecker stands to attention due I suspect to morning wood, which refuses to unfurl regardless of my urging. A clay chamber pot is calling to me and I wide step stagger over to the doorway for relief. When I am certain my stream is hitting the mark, I sigh and look through the doorway noticing the gathering crowd, the female goblins chatting, their pointing fingers confirming I or my member the topic of their discussion. None are attractive to either me or my pecker, so I finish and then with a lazy push close the door.

A squeak and immediately after a clatter.

A skinny female goblin is caught between the closing door and door jam, her face fallen. My breakfast bowl upturned upon the doorway threshold.

She drops to the ground turning the bowl over trying to scrape the contents back in. “Please Lord I will fetch another, don’t leave me behind as punishment, beat me instead I beg you …” Tears roll down her cheeks, either side of her smallish nose and my brain finally catches up.

I can hear the chat outside, ‘useless’, ‘ugly one’, ‘waste of food’ and my need to leave rises to the top of my priorities. “Fetch my goblins first I can eat later,” I growl.

The bowl firmly in her two hands she scrambles to her feet. “I am not to be trusted with messages Lord, I … I am stupid.”

I need a moment to regain my composure and reach for a jug inspecting the contents. I take a mouthful, swill, and spit. “You are one of the females, now mine?”

“Yes, yes Lord although I thought …”

“I don’t need you to think this moment, I need you to do.” I slam the jug back down and my eyes laser-like find hers. “Go fetch my goblins. Now!”

I feel a pang of tiny guilt as she jumps, grasping the bowl all the closer to her modest chest and then rabbit-like bolting from the cottage, peals of laughter serenading her exit.

My emotions are under control I tell myself and yet the outburst … natural. The body I inhabit an unexpected influence, how or why I don’t understand. Does my corpse retain any memories or past prejudices? I am certain vat-grown GPA flesh bags have no such baggage … The evidence is building, this a Hobgoblin racial thing, might is right, lessor beings their fodder and I am now being influenced.

Searching turns up a loincloth, mine I believe, clean of sex at the very least. My pants are next, and I pour myself into them, shrugging when I decide to agree with my ‘wives’, they are tighter than they need to be. Giving myself a once over inspection I open the cottage door and step out. Ignoring the onlookers, I spy the spears leaning up against the cottage and begin my examination of each one.

“Scram bitches, can’t you see the Lord Farmer Hob has completed his planting this visit and is now busy preparing to leave.”

I resist the urge to turn around and confirm, I am certain the voice belongs to one of the seven, the first? To look though would reveal their faces and of all things, I ardently retain my revulsion for a certain goblin facial feature. Something is messing with me – I am the agent who acclimates and accepts the mating rituals of sentient spiders amongst other abominations and yet I am fixated upon a single absolute, to reject female goblins with long noses. Is this really me? I lean forward, each hand grasping a spear to steady myself as I shake my head. The action futile, changing nothing, a useless gesture and no more. This body, incorrect, this former corpse and possibly the cocktail of drugs utilised to revive and rejuvenate responsible, the sole explanation, I am certain. Anything else and I doubt myself, to doubt myself is to tiptoe upon the edge of ‘going native’ and I swear at that moment to never lose myself here. I lose myself and they win.