So, the Chief Hob believes Hob young can be successfully birthed and possibly the kidnapping of young, healthy female goblins the main requirement. Yet wouldn’t his own tribe or village produce such females? Perhaps my initial conclusion, the Ranger Hob must be a superior Hunter Hob is wrong, could the name change align with the culture instead? This raises another question, is the culture of the Chief Hob civilised or tribal? Chief Hob is to Head Hob as Ranger Hob is to Hunter Hob. The names or titles seem mixed, surely a Chief Hob should be served by the more primitive sounding Hunter Hob, while the Head Hob should be served by the more sophisticated-sounding Ranger Hob. As for Smith Hob, probably a singular cross over between both cultures except the well-made leather armour of the kidnappers would suggest a leather crafting Hob. There must be an answer to this mess.

The real mystery, of course, the Farmer Hob. Responsible for breeding with goblins in a civilised culture, what is the equivalent in the tribal culture? Wouldn’t the food provider, the Ranger Hob perform that duty?

With my left hand around the back of her neck, I lift the kidnapper to her knees; tight bindings on her feet and hands prevent her from standing. Brutally dragging her down the line of captives I stop in front of number four, who is also on her knees.

I adjust my grip on the knife waving the weapon before their eyes to emphasise the implied threat. “One of you will die.” I look into the eyes of one and then the other. “Before then you will bleed.” In turn, I trail the knifepoint between their modest breasts leaving a trail of beading blobs of black blood. “Answering my questions will keep you alive.”

The goblins on either side of four shuffles away until the rope around their necks grows taut, while the kidnapper squirms under my steel-like grip.

“Name your Hobs.”

Four trembles, her bottom lip quivering, “C … Chief Hob.”

The kidnapper quickly adds, “Ranger Hob.”

I release an audible breath of frustration and snick the tips of their noses, their screams and cursing music to my ears. The dripping black blood a reminder to not tell me what I already know.

The kidnapper’s eyes cross attempting to inspect her wound. “Creep, you have scarred me!”

I grin mischievously and move the knife towards her nose, her face tries to retreat, failing.

“Armour Hob,” she splutters.

My eyes turn towards number four. “And you?” The knife point travels up her nasal passage. “If you move, I fear an accident.”

“Th … There are no other Hobs,” she says, her eyes staring down her nose at the knife.

“Which Hob seeds the goblin females?”

The kidnapper giggles and then sobers up. “What Hob are you? No Hob seeds goblins …” Her mouth stays open.

Oh crud, is Farmer Hob particular to the civilised culture? Why kidnap healthy young female goblins?

Number four gasps, “That is the secret … not two well-fed goblins, a Hob and female goblin.” Her eyes zero in on Rexa. “She is your mate, not a skilled goblin and that is why you chased us … what crappy luck, we didn’t think a Hob would bother.” Her eyes drift to my loins, simply leaning forward would …

I flinch and take a step back. She releases a throaty laugh.

“How big is it? Since your mate is still walking around it must fit …”

Kidnapper spits upon her. “You slut. Do you believe after threatening to kill us he will seed you?” She struggles to face me, and I relax the grip on her neck. “None survive, do they? Tell the stupid bitch, tell her,” she screams.

“What she says is the truth, no goblin carrying a Hob child, or the child have survived childbirth,” I reply.

“Then why is your mate making with the doe eyes and willing to take the risk of certain death?” asks number four.

“What Hob are you?” asks the kidnapper, much to the annoyance of number four.

“I ask the questions. How long before the meeting?”

“We haven’t signalled yet …” answers number four.

“Stupid bitch or is this you betraying to earn his seed?”

A humph from number four. She then bites her lower lip, sneaking a flutter of her eyelids in my direction as the kidnapper shakes her head. I return a salacious smirk, licking my lips.

“Did you just slut yourself?” yells the kidnapper.

“Of course, not …”

Time to leave. I drag the kidnapper to the end of the line and while she kneels rope her by the neck to the end of the line of captives. Number six in line, replacing the goblin who bled out, her motives dying with her.

I find my mate curled up and place my hands on Rexa’s cheeks, my lamb shivers. “We will head home after I fetch the armour from the Hob I slew. Watch them, but don’t prevent them escaping and risking your life, just call out to me.”

She nods slowly. Her trust in me and recent rescue I am certain the sole reasons holding her, instead of simply fleeing in panic.

I stride down the line and face them. “I have a little errand to run, if you try to escape my mate won’t prevent you but will call out and upon my return, I will slay any who aren’t kneeling where they are now.”

With that said, once out of their sight I dash into the bushland and find his corpse. While the greater effort I decide to drag him back to the line of captives and return to find everyone where I left them. At first, thinking only to remove his armour I decide to take his clothes also. His shirt and long pants made of extremely soft leather, well-crafted and at some stage I intend to wear both. For now, I wear his armour and feel safer although the bulk will take getting used to. His hatchets I sheath in the loops on his belt, now around my waist. I wear her belt as well to sheath her knives the leathercrafting skill superb. Taking a step back to observe I am content to leave behind a loincloth clad, but otherwise naked Hob corpse with a flint arrowhead protruding from its skull. Then a mischievous smile forms on my lips and for effect I lean the body up against the trunk of a mature tree, setting up a scene; the dead Hob watching the trail and wondering how many will pause and second look.

The shadows are long signalling dusk when I return. I wave them to stand, kicking any who dally. Number four and number six first on their feet. I shuffle down the line and pour water into each of their mouths from a waterskin and following behind me Rexa breaks off stale bread and shoves the piece into their mouths. I lift the leather pack off the dead bloodless goblin and hitch it upon number six’s back, she winces in pain but doesn’t protest.

Then in a shuffle run, I lead them down the trail and away from the gap. At first not understanding their good fortune they soon co-operate, realising I am not going to kidnap them out of their valley giving them the hope of rescue by their own tribe or loved ones. Our progress is good, I suspect number four and number six co-operate due to the threat of death hanging over them, still waiting to see which dies, after all, I did make a promise.

Beyond my expectations before final light, we reach our destination. A shallow running stream crossing the game trail. I take each in turn out of the line and let them drink from the stream and pull their pants down to do any business. When they return to the line Rexa feeds them a portion of stale bread. Number four and number six don’t protest or struggle, both meekly going along with the routine and I immediately become suspicious.

I shepherd Rexa to one side out of their earshot, not underestimating the hearing range of goblins this time.

“Did any move while in line when I left?” I whisper.

Her hands grab my upper arm, her eyes moist. “Are we safe?”

I wrap my arms around her, cooing, “We will be alright, I need to know though, did any of them move and then before my return go back into their proper position.”

“Y …yes, number four tried to stretch out, crying in pain when she did. Only after a time did she return to her proper position.”

I kiss Rexa on her forehead and arm in arm we approach the line of captives. Leaving her side, I approach number four. Her head darts about and while the darkness of night hides her eyes, I am certain they are full of fear.

“How did you signal the watch at the gap?” I whisper, trying to put as much venom and threat into my voice as possible.

She shakes her head in denial. My knife taps her wounded nose. She yelps and squeezes her eyelids shut.

“I won’t ask again. Whatever rescue you think you have organised won’t benefit you as I will cut your throat, after all I did promise one of you would die …” I hiss.

“T … the heel of her sandal … m … moves aside, and underneath silver to reflect sunlight …”

Inspecting the skulduggery in the dark worthless and I resist the urge to even try. Such elaborate preparation, the spy in the line of captives, a signal system if all else fails and certain hope of rescue once the signal is given. Their previous dislike for each other a pantomime. This would seem to suggest their rescuers would need to chase in the night otherwise I don’t see how they would catch up before we return to safety even with the line hobbled.

I return to Rexa’s side and whisper, “I am going to lead us up the stream and I need you to hang back and see if any, perhaps, number four or number six leave anything behind or take any unusual actions. Once all are beyond the trail hurry to catch us up. Can you do this?”

“Yes, my husband.”

Her voice frail and willowy and yet her grip on my arm like steel. I nod and then rouse the line. Once they are awake and standing, I decide to share with them.

“Number four and number six have signalled to your previous captors and I suspect they are now running in the dark by torch light trying to overtake us. If you hurry without betrayal, I promise to free you when I and my wife are safe. If you can watch the two who betrayed us, that would be most helpful.”

I lead them into the stream, number six first and note with some satisfaction, to the limit of their restraints the others hassle and bustle number four and number six. Our progress isn’t as quiet as I thought, random splashing to regain balance, shifting of loose rocks underfoot clacking and I suspect some deliberate clumsiness from number four and number six. Rexa though reports no obvious efforts from either number four or number six to leave any sort of trail upon entering the stream so I must be satisfied with that.

My hope is by travelling up the stream, those coming to the rescue jog or sprint past the stream crossing assuming we are still on the trail. By morning they will realise we must have turned off the trail at some point and need to begin a slow searching backtrack wasting valuable time. With this time, I hope to leave the stream and make a dash for the farm.

I deem we have gone as far as we can go up the stream in the dark. I imagine any number of bruises and scrapes and all sigh in agreement to rest on the side of the stream. My eyesight is poor in the dark, although the goblins managed better than I would have expected, so perhaps they have limited vision, enhancing starlight. For me though, I must needs rely on my hearing and that is what I do waiting for the dawn.

While knowing I need sleep, I resist the urge, my eyes welcoming the first rays of morning sunlight through the light tree canopy surrounding the stream. I suspect nanorobots or perhaps Hob will power, probably both. I kiss my wife on her lips to wake her and after a brief start, she leans into the kiss with an unbridled passion. I touch her forehead with mine as I break off our kiss.

“Morning and we must be away. Keep watch and listen out while I wake them.”

She kisses my nose and wraps her arms around my waist briefly before releasing me.

I creep down the line, using the back of my hand upon their cheeks, gently rubbing, ready to clamp their mouths with that same hand if they try to shout or yell in surprise. I leave number four and number six to last, and they behave. Number six especially quiet and I suspect her rib the cause.

We continue following the stream. To push through the brush and bush folly given the hobbles about their ankles. I did for a moment think to unbind them, but the chance of number four doing something foolish too high I decide. Animals will always find their way to water to drink and in so doing push trails through any forest or similar, so I need to be patient.

Rexa clasps my arm pulling me to a halt. I swivel my head about and she places her finger across her lips. I wave the line to a halt, the gurgling of the stream the only noise I can hear and yet I trust my wife. Shortly after the faces of the other goblins wilt, a gentle shaking of their head’s, eyes downcast.

“Crawl into the bush nearby and hide, I will lead the line up the stream a little further and then hide in ambush.” She shakes her head side to side, eyes pleading. “You must,” I add. “I can’t fight them if I am worried about you. They are after the line, they don’t know about you, now go.”

My wife slinks off into the undergrowth as I tug at and lead the line further up the stream at a jog until I reach a subtle bend and make the line perch on the high bank carved by the flow of the stream.

I ensure four and six are around the slight bend and unable to see exactly where I go, the best they can say is I backtracked down the stream unable to confirm if or where I left the water. I don’t go far, I suspect I don’t have the time and need to be content to back into some brush, arrow nocked waiting for those who follow us.

---

“Should we wait for the others?”

Spoken within earshot, the words, the first hint of the enemy.

“No, the signal was two, although one a Hob and arrows will kill them just as well as they kill a goblin.”

They advance up the stream in an arrowhead formation, all trying to be in the lead although constrained by the width of the stream. Their hardened leather armour like a uniform and none wear anything to distinguish any one of them as the leader or a superior. All have axes in leather loops on a belt at their waist advancing with arrows nocked in bows like mine.

I release and then dive back. There isn’t a yelp or swearing – did I miss? I try to listen and all I can hear is the gurgling of the stream, I suspect the goblins wait in silence. Yet I can’t stay still waiting for my death and possibly others.

Moving forward, wincing at every twig snaping and leaf scrapping I have eyes on the stream and then a movement to my right catches my eye. I fling myself prone and an arrow shatters the brush above me.

“Here,” my foe shouts.

In an instant they know which side of the stream I am on; worse they can hurry to a rallying point.

I raise my head, peeking towards the stream, two goblins are rushing towards my location, their legs splashing through the stream. My foe is closer and pulls back on his bow taking the strain, smiling instead of releasing. The bank I am on slopes away from the stream, my body lying on the incline, therefore any in the stream can’t target any part of my body except what I offer above the lip of the bank. My initial instinct is to duck and yet he remains with a slim chance of hitting his target and doesn’t take the opportunity. What am I missing?

Rolling on my back to scan behind me, nothing. From the stream, a great hue and cry rise, probably from the two charging through the stream, but loud, too loud … this is a distraction! I need to find out … I must change position. As I crunch my abdominals to sit up a shape launches towards me, an axe in each hand.

Instinct takes over and I release my nocked arrow. The release is without a great deal of pull strain, although proving accurate taking the charging goblin in the eye. His body continues forward crashing into mine and as I lift the corpse off me three arrows sprout from it, the combined force knocking the corpse from my grip to land on the bank sliding a further arm’s length down the slope.

I roll scramble down to his body and then crossing my arms before my face I charge through the brush relying on the leather vambraces to prevent serious harm.

“He’s running,” shouts one.

I decide to push my way towards the line, better to draw my pursuers away from my wife. I tsk, this decision an easy acceptance between Hobgoblin possession and basic Humanity. Their hearing I am certain follows my blundering destruction of branch and twigs and then nothing, the ground beneath my feet is no more. Flailing arms and legs and then a splash. Landing heavily in the shallows of the stream my legs buckle and give way and instead of flinging my arms out, I wrap them about my head and strain to roll. My half attempt is enough as I lay on my side, my body a small dam and the cool water invading every dry patch on my body.

Climbing to my feet, my first instinct is to shake, instead, I catch the wide eye stares of number four, five and six. From behind them, two goblins draw arrows while my bow floats towards them, flung away during my improvised leap. I shift to a crouch preparing to dash for the bank and possibly a blind given the curve of the stream when the goblins’ throats sprout arrows. The line of bound goblins screech, scream or remain silent depending upon the sight and change of circumstance. I straighten, trying to regain my air of superiority.

“Late for that husband,” says Rexa dryly from the bank of the stream, standing with room to move on the trail I bullocked through the undergrowth.

Taking sloshing steps towards her, I reply. “I thought I commanded you to hide, wife.”

She points to a location behind me and smiles. Swivelling about I catch my other wives bounding through the stream, water droplets catching the morning sunlight while their smiles are ear to ear. As they close upon me, Milga Stone Blood stands like a statue in the middle of the stream, shaking her head from side to side. Then the four are pawing at me, possibly checking for wounds and yet their hands manage to worm into questionable places.

“How?” I manage to ask.

None answer, instead, hanging off my arms they drag me towards Milga.

“You were late?” She cocks an eyebrow.

“A detour to …”

She waves my explanation away.

“You are fortunate to have jealous wives, they thought your latest was evening the count and therefore keen to accompany me …”

“That isn’t true … husband we thought you injured …” retorts Koria, while Luda and Duzsia pout in support.

“What will be the first thing you four do when safe?” asks Milga.

Apparently immune to water they nuzzle their heads into my body and remain silent.

“I found your rest spot and the trail in the long grass. Following we overheard swearing and cursing, I immediately assumed you the cause …”

I free my arms and raise them, challenging her unfair assessment.

“We followed them, which was easier than I thought as they seemed intent on backtracking. As they separated into twos, I assume so they could all sprint up the trail and inspect a section each at the same time we ambushed them as they bent over the trail looking for your footprints I assume. Once they charged down the stream we followed and continued to pick them off, until the final two. You make a great piece of bait, partner.”

She slaps her thigh and belly laughs at my expense, while the six goblins in the rope line shift about, especially four and six.

I reach over to Koria and guide her head closer, kissing her forehead. “Run to the farm and tell your father to send twenty farmers to us, we have a booty to haul home.”

“Only because my husband commands me,” she replies while untangling herself from me and running back down the stream.

“Luda go with your sister and be careful.” I wouldn’t think others from the gap would be about, but I don’t want to take the chance.

“Yes, husband.”

There is a reluctance, yet she obeys.

Pushing free and towards the two dead goblins, I cast my eyes over them and bark orders, “Start collecting. Armour and clothes to the line of captives to carry, while Rexa can hold the weapons.”

Before I finish, Milga adds over her shoulder, “And I will stand watch …” while splashing through the stream.

I raise an eyebrow, which she can’t now observe having left the scene.

“At least one is smart enough to ignore you and think for herself …”

Number six. I amble towards her, wearing a wide fake smile. When an arm's length away my hand darts towards her neck and squeezes. “Looks like I found a winner …”

Her eyes bulge …