“Matriarch, an odd time of the night, erm … morning to visit.”

“I wish to bargain some more, and would do so without others listening if you are agreeable?”

I secure my loincloth and take a seat at my porch table, waving an open hand at my visitor to join me. She hesitates and then settles down upon the chair opposite, her voluminous robes flowing around and about.

Her eyes wander across my bare flesh and then fix upon the table taking a moment to tame her breathing. I wait.

“What would be your fee to service the five females in my present company? One has a mate, but he has accepted the need.”

“Why did you bring female goblins with you? It seems a great risk to take.”

She lifts her eyes from the table, to look past me for a moment and then snaps back to make eye contact. “We thought to trade them if you must know, all if necessary, for the one you have, had … captive, appealing to your Farmer Hob lust as it is sowing season. I do wonder the outcome if we presented our requests before you serviced the females on your Farm, yet it seems your lust is never-ending.”

Would be, and could be I am trying to ignore, wasted effort, we are here now, and the past can’t be changed including the slightly ajar cabin door allowing her to peek inside the cabin and spy upon lolling tongues and other such signs of lustful satisfaction.

“In the hunting party?” I ask.

“They are all accomplished huntresses, their skill and bravery proven many times on the plains although I do accept males fit more easily into the role of hunter.” She takes a deep breath. “Even so I will not deny the chance to grow ability regardless of where it first takes hold.”

The pause, gathering herself to push through speaking about her bold way with the second statement, perhaps challenging to a male, let alone a Hob who should think goblins are nothings, the females to be serviced. Does she test me, trying to gauge the level of my non-Hobness, if such a thing exists? I decide to gift words of vindication.

“You are wise to leverage your tribespeople to align with best fit, encourage thinking beyond the assumed.”

“Then what say you to my proposal, I am trying to gather the fruits of your seed into my tribe many times over and I need to know the price to determine if there is value.”

I false smile, trying to conceal the delicious intent I only now decide upon, but the Matriarch shifts back in her chair in response. She suspects – something.

“Send your male hunters to the mountain pass.” As she opens her mouth to protest, I wave her down. “They are searching for two I sent yesterday, one the prisoner of the other, supposedly collecting a ransom. They only need to observe, ideally without being seen although you need to warn them the guard is an extremely skilled huntress, usually one of the kidnappers in fact.”

A deep green rolls up her neck and then face, while her petite hands, white knuckle while gripping the table.

“Usually. One. Of. The. Kidnappers!”

I wipe away her spittle from my face and smile while doing so.

As she stands to storm off, I growl, my smile gone. She sits back down, hands steadying her trembling body.

“Why do you think I would reveal that to you instead of keeping quiet? And lose the emotion. On any scale Hobs win on that score and presently I must make deliberate effort to restrain certain violent passionate instincts boiling within me …”

One arm ending in a hand with fingers curling set to grip reaches across the table. A shivering Matriarch awaits my will. Instead of strangling with fingers, the back of my hand caresses her cheek and withdraws.

“B … because I need to know?” she whimpers.

“Yes, and there is more to tell.”

“A kidnapper,” she whines.

“My opinion of you is misjudged. Our meeting is over and if I hear of this secret from any others, I will know the source and not be pleased.” I make a slow closing fist with my hand.

“I promise, no more emotion and my hunters will need to know who they track to ensure they succeed …”

Lounging back in my chair I scrutinise her face. After some intense moments and with a green flush to her face, she mouths the words, ‘I apologise’.

“The two should travel through the pass, your hunters will need to wait. In one or two days the huntress should return by herself and make for the Farm. I need to know of any interactions, I doubt your hunters will be able to overhear conversations, but body language, swearing, emotions, new faces met, and the like would be useful observations. Is this possible?”

Upon her face, an instant of realisation appears. “This is a test, you suspect treachery?”

“I hope for loyalty, I wish to confirm there is no treachery …”

She nods. “Is there something else?”

“Only know the kidnapper is important to me, either as an ally to extract information from or a spy to report back false information and any who endanger either outcome will not be spared my wrath.”

“Understood Lord Farmer Hob.”

A part of me considers abandoning this next condition given our misunderstanding but that would be me allowing emotion to interfere. The Matriarch presents me with a unique opportunity, and I mean to stay the course until I know the outcome.

I nod, certain we have an understanding. “Once the hunters leave, I will service your huntresses on one condition. If I service their Matriarch first.”

Her mouth opens, closes, while her hands grip the table edge. I wait for the excuses.

“I am beyond, I can’t any longer …”

I know my question will go straight for the jugular, given the goblin sisters uniqueness and an educated guess about my guest. “Do you have any heirs of your bloodline?”

In an instant several tears squeeze out, my question cutting deep as I suspect, and perhaps emotional baggage still lingers from our earlier confrontation. She turns her head aside quickly wiping her eyes with cloth from her robe. “They have fallen, the last too weak to waste food on during a poor season and I haven’t tried since.” She straightens. “I am too old now to waste your seed.”

“How many of your maturity have decided they are too old?”

“There is no point, the weak, young and old are the first to go when food is scarce.”

“I can’t promise that won’t happen again until the next crop is harvested, yet if you were pregnant your child will have no greater chance of survival than now.”

“And the next year?” Her eyes fill with tears.

“I expect to have more farming land by then …”

“You are cruel to promise this hope … cruel and mean, I prefer the brutal threat of your strangling hand, without guile, instant and without wait if you so choose.” Tears fall upon the tabletop.

“You can wait a season, to be certain the crop is harvested. Consider this an offer, not a condition …”

“Stupid Hob!” Her petite fist smashes my arm. “Every year my chances reduce …”

I push back my chair while standing and offer the Matriarch an open hand. She stares at the invitation and then places her hand in mine. When both of us are clear of the table I draw her to me, then use my free hand to gently wipe the tears from her eyes.

About to mouth some words I place my finger across her lips. Bending my knees, I sweep her into my arms and in silence carry her to the kitchen cabin.

---

“You were gentle, almost caring?”

The surprise in her voice welcome, quelling my fear the threat of strangling her would leave an emotional scar. Apparently, for goblins, surviving violent death or the threat is reward enough not requiring any further worry or soul searching. I smile down upon her naked body, one which has mothered before – generous hanging breasts, belly pudding and love handles around the hips and yet the joyful smile upon her lips eclipses the hurt and sadness residing in her eyes, years in the making. Given her demonstrated resilience to threats of death, and due to the moment, we find ourselves in, the cause is more likely something like maternal loss which she now hopes I am the cure for.

“Have you tried to stand?” I quip.

“Why? Are you going to push me down again?”

There is an invitation there which I shrug off.

“No, for soon we must be discrete as my wives will arrive shortly to prepare my breakfast …”

She snorts, holding her arms out in invitation. I raise an eyebrow.

“You are a strange Hob if you believe I am anything but proud of my conquest, taking your Hob seed.” She smirks. “Many times, in fact, if I remember rightly and if I give birth my bloodline will be restored carrying Hob blood. So, will you ride me again …”

“No, he can’t.”

The Matriarch needs to look, I don’t.

“Explain Milga,” I ask while holding out a hand to the Matriarch.

The Matriarch reaches up with her hand. “You are Hob and yet a Gob female commands you? Did the world turn upside down overnight?” As I assist her to stand, she groans, her eyes squeezing shut trying to ignore the impossible.

“Do you want me to carry you back to your camp?”

Her eyes open while she tries to keep her legs, upper thighs especially still. I notice bruising …

“Yes,” she squeezes out in reply.

“No, he can’t. A messenger from the Head Hob is waiting to see him. Now, immediately.”

I scoop up the Matriarch and place her on one of the long benches and wrap her robes around her.

“I must go.”

Milga throws me a shirt while she ties off my loincloth. The fact she voluntarily chooses to do this speaks to the degree of urgency. Next is my long leather pants, tight fit. I need a new pair. Then I step into my boots, I tie one while Milga ties the other and we are out the door. Milga leads me to the cold embers of the spit in time to witness the Head Hob’s messenger picking at the remains of the boar still hanging there from last night’s feast.

“Report,” I growl. I am still a Hob after all, regardless.

He flinches as he turns to meet us. “The Hunter Hob is gone.”

My first thought is, and so? Milga enlightens me indirectly.

“No, body?” she asks.

The goblin messenger remains facing me when he replies, “No, it seems he has left, deserted the valley in fact. While largely ineffective in providing meat, he nevertheless was a Hob, and one fewer worries the Head Hob. He has entrusted me with these orders for you because his health is failing. His order states, ‘Farmer Hob given his interest in spears is to hunt and cull tribal goblins, six tribes must become four or you can take from each in whatever portion you decide. This needs to be done now, because when you are promoted to Head Hob there won’t be a Hob to manage the farm.’ He has ordered Smith Hob to supply you with additional spears.”

My mouth hangs open while I listen to each sentence and as he finishes, I need to work up saliva to counter the drying effects.

“When will the spears arrive?”

“They are arriving later today with the females you bargained from the Smith Hob. I am done so I journey back to the Head Hob before you begin your rampage. The Head Hob is depending upon you.”

The messenger walks away awkwardly, in haste yet trying to do so while maintaining a certain amount of decorum. The Farm begins to awake around him and when the goblin tribesmen and tribeswomen wake from their tents, he sprints through the Farm entrance and is away. Milga and I observe him leave, each struggling to comprehend the long-term ramifications of the message from our own respective point of views, I suspect. Is our partnership in jeopardy?

“Are you going to cull?” Her words are empty of feeling, a statement. She expects the truth given we are partners.

“I need to at least appear to … the Head Hob is special, knowing in some mystical way although the Hunter Hob’s desertion despite his influence can only be due to his failing health. Gather the Goblin Leaders, probably in the kitchen cabin is best since one is already housebound there.”

Milga doesn’t throw a quip back, instead hurrying off to the tribal camps. I can only deduce a ‘goblin culling’ is a thing and yet I have been trying to do everything but. I find a fence post and lean against the solid support to take the time to observe the Farm and the working goblins who go about their business in peace, all the while thinking upon a plan of violence. Redagar leading out a work crew to only he knows where. Jotor rounding up other goblins to tend the fields and muck out the sow pens. The muck will be utilised to dress the fields today now the seeds are striking. I note the three goblin leaders following Milga and push off from my post to head towards the kitchen cabin. Halfway there the Ten Spears jog around me, chuckling, I assume to resume their hunting or capturing for the day since yesterday’s display of force won’t be needed today – I hope.

The kitchen cabin is clear of wives when I enter, probably Milga’s doing. The Matriarch now dressed remains where I left her. The other leaders gravitate towards her, perching upon a table or lounging in a chair close by. Milga rests her elbows on the serving table fixture separating the kitchen proper from the eating area.

“The Head Hob has just declared a tribal goblin culling and I am to perform this as soon as certain supplies arrive.”

Their jaws drop of course and then they look about, expecting a killing blow I suspect. They don’t protest or accuse yet are reeling and I decide to lay out the entire situation and plan at once.

“I will assume the display of calm means you trust me. The order is to reduce six tribes to four or I can take portions from every tribe. We will cull one tribe as an initial show of good faith. Once the weapons arrive, Laughing Tusks and Grim Weavers will leave the Farm and assemble at the common border they share with Blood Suns and begin a methodical eradication the next dawn. Sharp Fangs will sweep behind them, half a day later, searching for any who hid from the initial attack. Any objections?”

Chief Bor Bone Eye stands. “What are the Blood Bones tribe to do during this time? If we don’t join in, we will miss out on a share of female and young …”

I did wonder how far a culling went and given my ignorance, I didn’t want to declare upon a guess. While I was prepared for annihilation, I hoped for less.

“The Blood Bones tribe will join with the Sharp Fangs, for every Spear which shows from Blood Bones a Spear from Sharp Fangs can remain behind and protect their land. Is that acceptable?”

Grol reaches over and grips Bor’s forearm, the Chief returning the grip and them shaking. Before they return to their seats another speaks.

“That takes care of one tribe, but the culling requires two, so what next?” asks the Matriarch.

“When I call the Head Hob’s messenger to witness the heads of the slain, I will request a rest before attacking the next tribe. He will either say yes or no. It will then depend upon the health of the Head Hob. For now, let us provide an initial success.”

After obligatory agreeable nodding, I continue. “The Blood Bones and Sharp Fangs tribes need to break camp and leave immediately. The fewer tribes camping on the Farm the better when my next visitor arrives. I suspect the Smith Hob will be a guest before day end.”

“As you command Lord Hob,” answers Chief Bor, while Grol nods. As they get up to leave, I wave them back to stay.

“Wait one moment, I need you to be aware of what I need Laughing Tusks and Grim Weavers to do.” I look to Meb. “Laughing Tusks will need to camp beyond the bottom field, under camouflage if possible. As soon as we can supply you the promised weapons you must then hurry to your start position to begin the cull.”

“Yes, Lord Hob.”

His response is without passion, I hope I don’t need to cure his heartache with a spear thrust.

“The Grim Weavers have a different mission, hunters will track down a couple of my followers who are heading towards the mountain pass, while the Matriarch and most others return to their lands and prepare for the culling. Those that remain will follow them in good time escorted by my Ten Spears. I need the Ten Spears exposed to combat, but I need to ensure they all survive. I trust they will.”

“Yes, Lord Hob.” I detect the faintest of smirks upon the Matriarch’s lips.

“If you have no questions then go, otherwise ask now.”

Chief Bor and Grol continue their exit. Meb nods and follows in their wake.

“Can Lord Farmer Hob attend to my huntresses between now and before the Smith Hob arrives?”

I nod.

“Can Milga fetch all who accompanied me and lead them to the kitchen cabin?” asks the Matriarch.

“Will they believe me?” asks my partner.

“Have no doubt, either you or the other from Flint Arrows are the Farmer Hob’s seconds, there is no question amongst the tribes about this fact.”

Milga leaves immediately.

“I will need some assistance, although not as much as I thought. I intend to meet my tribe outside the kitchen cabin while relaxing in one of those hammocks, issue the required orders and send in another huntress as each one finishes. Once done, except for a couple of hunters chasing down your followers we will make good speed back to our lands and prepare for the cull. Don’t send your Ten Spears with us, send them with the Laughing Tusks that way they won’t have to travel so far, and they will be on the farm when your visitors arrive, which would be expected I would think.” She quirks an eyebrow.

I descend upon her. “Agreed. A Gob giving Hob instructions, how can that be possible?” I lift her in my arms and out the kitchen cabin door, her laughter wild and free during her transfer, only stopping when I pretend to drop her. A brief yelp and then the hammock catches her. I earn a smack on my arm for that ruse, and I chuckle while returning to the kitchen cabin. I find my breakfast and chew down on roots, berries, and a small portion of a cold spit roast.

Milga pokes her head in. Nods and then enters closing the door behind her.

“Two tribes have already left Lord, the third, Laughing Tusks not far behind. I instructed the Grim Weavers to pack as well.” She smirks. “Apparently when their Matriarch doesn’t return to sleep with them, they prepare for a quick decamping, so they are ready for any circumstance. I suspect your new subject knew that when you started issuing orders.”

“I suspect the first huntress will be waiting then …”

She nods. “Your wives and I will stake out the trail and give you as much warning as possible about the Smith Hob’s arrival.”

She is out the door as I finish the last of my breakfast. Then there is a knock.

“Enter.”