“Would they slay you upon sight?”

She rubs her chin. The fact she needs to consider this possibility is a concern!

“I don’t think so, they would be curious …”

I tear off a portion of the boar. “About?”

She grins flopping her head from side to side. “You mostly, your survival. How Zeb and his family are doing, why they are still here? Who are they loyal to? Remember they will be trying to plot, balance risk against reward. See if they can manipulate this new situation to their advantage …”

“Seems a mission fraught with much danger and intrigue, perhaps I should have enlisted Vuzsia, she …”

Milga slams her open hand upon the table, and I hold up a hand to stay her wrath. My partner’s open mouth closes before she utters anything she may regret.

“As I was about to say, she would have been expendable.”

I get a humph as she settles her bottom back into the chair and chews down hard on the meat in her mouth.

“Would Zeb be a good choice to send as an envoy?”

“I will go,” she says, with a hard edge to her voice.

I grab her hands, the move surprises her of course. “You. Are. Not. Expendable. If you go you must promise me to return or stay alive, whatever it takes, until I come to rescue you. Promise!” My eyes bore into hers and I am unrelenting, my grip on her arms tighten a fraction so she knows I am deadly serious.

Tears. One from the left eye, three from the right eye dribble down her cheeks. My holding her hands prevent any wiping and from the trembling lips, I can tell this annoys her. I wait.

“I promise,” she whispers. I almost miss the word.

“Promise what?”

“To return or stay alive until you rescue me …” She sniffs.

“Stay alive how?”

She releases a long breath. “Whatever it takes …”

I grab both of her hands in one of mine and with the free hand wipe her tears and only then release my grip freeing her to settle back into her chair.

“You are my emissary. They harm you in any way and they have attacked me.”

She nods. I am uncertain if she can speak, her chest is sucking in air and releasing … I hope due to the emotion of the moment and the clear certainty I value her.

“Tell them the Blood Bones, Sharp Fangs and Grim Weavers are intending to raid our grain silos once we harvest. The Flint Arrows have two choices, either to attack us at the same time or just before or preferably for us, attack the Blood Bones when they leave their Tribal Lands to attack. Depending upon their actions we may or may not be more cooperative in the future.”

“Such a gamble Lord Hob …”

I know this bothers her because she doesn’t pick another portion to eat.

“While you are in their company, I need you to find out if they have an ancient set of Warrior Hob Armour and Weapon, I suspect they will be on display in a holy shrine or venerated place. I will need to visit the place sometime in the future so make sure you know how to find your way there.”

The colour drains from her face as I speak each word, I am almost distracted by the sight …

“You ask the impossible … um Lord. None but the Council know the location, although many know the legend as the telling is a source of pride amongst Flint Arrows. This single act many generations ago set the Flint Arrows apart from all other tribes …”

“It has also ensured they haven’t changed their way of life from those times either and being unable to change and adapt is a weakness, one which I hope, given enough time, to exploit. If they suggest an emissary should be sent to the Farm, essentially a spy for them.” I clear my throat. “Make sure you utterly reject, even before they suggest any names, Vuzsia Dead Eye.” I see her face contort slightly and hold up a hand. “I am getting tired of calming your passion before I finish, I will just slap you from now on, agreed?”

She slow nods, is that her sulking? Why this cautious passion, now? Milga’s greatest strength, her callous logic seems to have fled her.

“If they ask why then say she rejected my advances and invitation to be my wife.”

Milga giggles, I am glad my suggestion improves her mood. “She will deny the offer and rejection …”

“Yes, she will, but it won’t make any difference, wouldn’t anyone of Flint Arrows deny such a brazen offer? Except of course those who fall prey to me by choosing to survive river drowning …”

“Why is she ideal?”

“A number of reasons. I am hoping her time away from the tribe has broadened her view of the world. So, after returning she becomes quickly sick of the intrigue having lived a different life without it.”

Air whistles through Milga’s teeth. “That was a reason, which … um … continue.”

I show off a wide smile. “Also, while with us and enjoying her freedom I hope to win her over or at least make her report favourably given time.”

Milga’s hands play together. “You wish to make her your wife then?”

I shake my head. “No, not as a particular objective, I have enough wives. More along the lines, I trust you and Koria to know her and therefore be able to gauge where her loyalty is.” I say Koria’s name quietly, as I am still missing one wife. There is no news of Duzsia whom I am certain is pregnant.

“What do I say about the river drowning, you could grab Vuzsia, steal her spirit and make her yours …” She blinks. “For example.”

I suspect this question burns within her, if I don’t take Vuzsia as a wife, perhaps I force her loyalty and, in some way, this challenges our arrangement. She needs an answer, giving up on slapping the table and interrupting she controls her emotion, although the minute way her lips quiver waiting for my answer … this takes effort. This is not the partner, I know. Is sending her a mistake … she seems too emotional. Did my reveal, my declaration she isn’t simply another goblin to me affect her more than I first realised.

Her wide eyes study mine as I delay my response, with my thinking.

“Explain the subject needs to be willing to survive the revival. They need to choose their loyalty, either their Tribal Ancestors or my Devotee. I can’t influence that, which is why at least one, the bravest of the brave, chose his Ancestors. Make sure you lavish praise here … bravest of the brave, indomitable courage for example. They need to know he won on their behalf. He preserved the tribe’s honour and reputation.”

Milga Stone Blood nods and I believe is more than satisfied. “This will mark Zeb’s family as cowards.”

“Most likely, which means they will never want them back. They survived the drowning they made their choice.”

She thinks upon that for a while and I give her the time, chewing on the few remaining portions of boar leg. I don’t believe Zeb was under any delusions about the choice at the time, his daughters being his reason for living. He accepted, once they declared loyalty to me, he would never return to the tribe.

Milga abandons the leg bone and looks into my eyes. “My mission then is to either set the Flint Arrows upon the Blood Bones or add a fourth tribe to our woes.” I nod. “See if they offer an emissary and if they do try to influence who that will be by opposing the choice we want and try to assure them the stealing of spirits is a loyalty and bravery test and if I get a chance, find out where the tribe hides their most secret of secret holy artifacts. That about sum up my mission.”

I shake my head from side to side. “More important than all of that, return to me.”

She jeers. “I am the Stone Blood, my name actually means unwavering bravery in the face of certain death, so my survival and return to you is a given partner.”

Her finishing half-smile, half convincing. She is trying to live up to her name and unfortunately, she isn’t facing a wild beast, but her own tribal society which lives and breathes intrigue. Surviving past Council clashes, I am hoping will provide the resilience to see her through this time as well.

“Can you leave now?” I ask.

“For the Flint Arrows?”

I nod, “Before you have a chance to dwell on the dangers …”

“How?”

I smirk. “You must know as well as I do, they would keep a permanent watch on the river island, after all, they don’t want lessor goblins invading their Tribal Lands again.”

“I will meet you there,” she says.

“I will meet you there,” I reply. What preparation does she need to do?

---

I wade across with Milga upon my shoulders and deposit her upon the island and then smartly turn around and wade back to the Farm side shore. She nocks and releasing one arrow into the clearing on the Flint Arrows side of the river and waits.

The wait isn’t short, dusk isn’t far away when a committee of five, one important looking goblin by his swagger and confidence and four others, maybe bodyguards march to the bank of the river.

“What do you want outcast?”

Mmm, perhaps I underestimated their level of hate. Maybe Vuzsia spoke against Milga upon her return.

“I am not an outcast, only the full Council can declare me such and to my face, as I have earnt my name and therefore don’t need to suffer any disrespect.”

I can see now why the Council wanted to resist giving her a name, in this tribe at least there are certain benefits and given Milga’s response certain protections.

“Not officially, but you know the sentiment is strong and against you.”

“Since when have the Flint Arrows descended to sentiment instead of rules? If this is the case, perhaps I was wise to leave such a weak lawless tribe and go my own way. I swear to hold to our traditions so at least one true Flint Arrows walks this valley.”

“Enough!” One of the bodyguards calls out. The other four genuflect and give him a significant amount of personal space.

Milga whispers something under her breath, which I have no chance of hearing. She bows though like the others, so whoever this is commands a great deal of respect or at least obedience.

He continues once satisfied. “Why do you shout at us from the river island Milga Stone Blood?”

Milga straightens after holding her bow longer than the others, only rising once addressed. “I am an emissary of Lord Farmer Hob Klug, and he wishes amicable discussion between Flint Arrows and the Farm.”

“Wade across, if you survive, we will entreat with you as his emissary.”

“I have a better plan. I will release an arrow with a rope attached and I trust you will haul me across the river before I drown.”

“Agreed!” he shouts.

They don’t move out of the way, they expect Milga’s arrow to fly true and aren’t disappointed. Once the other four have hold Milga dives into the river and they fulfil their side of the agreement, rapidly pulling on the rope with all their strength and Milga, although wet is across and alive. They wrap a fur around her shoulders and without looking back she marches towards her fate with an escort, and I assume one of the Council.

---

I stroll East along the riverbank, my thoughts with Milga, questioning this plan until the lights of the Farm proper interrupt with their welcome. I note the evening feast is underway, two glistening boars are on a spit each. We will shortly need three, how long until we need four? I help myself to a small portion and retire to my cabin table. Several of the Ten Spears move about the feast yet those I sent with the elder aren’t one of them, therefore perhaps tomorrow. Once I eat my full, instead of sleep, I visit the Birthing Huts. I arrive in time to witness a starving family of five emerge from the night and join the other Blood Suns. Rexa in the company of other Blood Suns greets them, although their cautiousness proves while they are of the same tribe, they are strangers.

“They dribble in husband,” answers Rexa to my unasked question.

“Will we have enough space?” A question for myself and I don’t expect an answer.

“They will stay out under the night sky if they must, food is their priority.”

I flick my head towards the nearest door, and she takes the hint to follow me outside the Huts.

“Have all the others left this task to you,” I whisper.

“I am more than capable husband, many times have I been witness to Jotor organising his farmhands for the day, they require food and water, tasks to be completed and discipline if warranted. Luda and Zeb support me if needed but more and more they praise me and leave this task to me. You can be proud of me husband …”

Does she fear I will remove her? Absurd, if Zeb believes she is capable I will not think otherwise.

“Be assured wife, Zeb praises your efforts and I thought to visit and praise you also.” I sweep her off her feet into a long warm embrace, her blushing face ample reward.

“Husband! Put me down please, I have work to do on your behalf …”

I kiss and release her. She skips back into the Huts, taking a quick look over her shoulder to ensure I watch her every step of the way.

“Husband,” whispers Zuxa, as she hurries by to deliver a leg of roasted boar.

I wait and catch Lazsia before she can dart by with a simple greeting.

“Husband, we are assisting fourth wife Rexa, obeying her every order I assure you …”

Fourth wife? What does that mean? “Who is fifth wife and so on?”

“Bekto is fifth wife husband, Ligia is sixth wife, Zuxa is seventh wife, and I am … I am eighth wife.”

I try not to laugh. This amuses me as I considered all my wives somewhat equal, or do I? That isn’t completely true I self-confess, my first wives I consider most capable and devoted, the four tributes of variable worth, while Zana and Gato are, well I am not certain.

“Ligia has left the Farm, why is she still sixth wife?”

“Only in death do we leave your side Husband, your first wives beat that understanding into us within the first day.” Her eyes moisten. The memory recall is enough … to stir inner emotion, did they physically beat her? I remember our first night, each tribute wife accepting their situation to a different degree. This I accepted, what I didn’t accept was the assumption they could laze about.

“While your returning of Ligia’s Spirit fooled Meb, him supposedly ‘Sharp Eye’ …” The mocking tone in her voice unmistakable. “He only saw what he wanted to, more fool him. I beg your leave to go husband. Sister-wife Rexa is likely to punish me if I dally.”

“Even if talking to me at my request?”

Her eyes cast downwards. “Your fourth wife is a harsh mistress husband but fair with the likes of me your lowly eighth wife.”

“Off you go.”

She releases a long breath and scampers away. Thinking back to more playful nights and early mornings I thought all my wives were civil towards each other, none fighting for anything but a fair share of my time. I see now there was and still is a pecking order, I assume Koria is first wife, Luda is second wife, Duzsia is third wife and I have no idea about Zana and Gato … How could I not see this?

“Lord Hob, food …”

I don’t recognise the voice immediately although once her face comes into view, I wonder why she attends to me.

“You eat, you need to recover.”

Zoria’s shoulders slump and then her eyes rise to stare into mine. “What must I do to prove my loyalty? I have stabbed myself, been stabbed by others and I bear the scars … stood by Milga.”

“I don’t know.” I leave her gobsmacked, returning to my cabin and an early night. I lay awake and as my wives return to my cabin I observe while feigning sleep. There is a dance of deferring, Koria takes up her position beside me before any others, she spoons on the inside and I recall like a punch to head, none slept there during her absence. Then the others in wife pecking order, but not as a line up taking turns, they know with precision where and how to lay with me while respecting the order. Wife diplomacy at work.

---

I wake, my clean and polished armour is set out and my spear is hanging along a support beam ready for me to pick off. All my wives have risen and left to perform their duties I assume. I begin my day in the kitchen cabin, Zana serves me while Gato weaves a basket from tall grass lengths, her belly fitting in the basket opening as she works. I come to a decision.

“Zana and Gato once you have given birth, I will offer to make you my wives if you are willing to survive the ceremony.”

They giggle.

Gato answers my dumbfounded look. “We are already your wives, Smith Hob proclaimed us as such when he gave us to you. Being proper civilised goblins, we understand our duty from the start and our loyalty is absolute. The Smith Hob explained how things were changing and how the Farmer Hob wanted dedicated female goblins in case of the need to rut out of season occurred and the tribal goblins, while they survived the drowning ceremony, weren’t your true wives because it was just hocus-pocus stuff, a ruse to tame the primitives. We do accept though that Rexa is first wife.” Zana and Gato nod in sync. “As such we must obey her, but the tribal wives are um … like favourite obedient playthings, not wives though husband, no not wives.”

I don’t have an answer to their absolute belief in their worldview. I push my plate away and wordless, I walk to the door to escape the innocent mind-bending of Zana and Gato. How come the husband isn’t told about this addition of wives? Can any Hob gift wives to the Farmer Hob? Did my offer to the Smith Hob for spears and so forth commit me to this arrangement and I didn’t understand the agreement fully? Rexa could be the key, she is accepted by the Tribal wives and acknowledged by my two Copper Village wives … yes, I need to speak with her!

With purpose, I stride towards the Pregnancy Huts. As I round behind the kitchen cabin, I hear a whimpering noise from nearby. My hearing isn’t as acute as a goblin, good enough though as I zero in on the source. Backing away trying to hide further, a large belly goblin is amongst the grass weave baskets, her eyes wide as I kneel in front of her.

“Quiet and quit wiggling,” I growl. Her pants are already off laying nearby, only her loincloth remains.

I caress her belly, feeling for baby movement. After a time, the baby turns, and I smile upon my unwilling patient. Her face begins to contort.

“Don’t push yet, resist the urge.”

She bites her lip and then opens her mouth wide when I wrestle off her loincloth.

“Quiet.”

I part her legs and observe, she is yet to fully dilate her cervix. Given Zoxa’s description of childbirth, I am certain my patient is trying to comprehend my presence and in doing so, rests instead of trying to push a large baby head through too small an opening.

“Breathe.” I demonstrate this by breathing deep in myself and then breathing out, trying to set her to a slow rhythm.

“What is your name?”

“Piba,” she whispers, her face screwing up in pain.

“You must breathe instead of pushing … alright? I will let you know when you can push and when you can rest, understand? The pain is from contractions, they force your body to make a way for your baby.”

A frantic nod of her head isn’t convincing but at least it isn’t rejection or panic.

On my knees, perfectly in position, I check again, the dilation of her cervix is near enough to seventy or eighty percent the size of the mother’s head and I observe for the first time there is no difference from the previous check. Her last pain must have been the final contraction.

“Push Piba …”

Her eyes blink, she is aware of my presence and what she must do while I am present and shakes her head from side to side.

“Push Piba,” I growl. “I am not leaving, so unless you wish to burst wide open, push now.”

She squeaks and under my hand, I detect taut muscles, the push is on! As I see her eyes semi-close and breathing become haggard, I decide it is time for a brief rest and call to her. She sighs, while occasionally wincing. Pain is a given during childbirth and I try soothing words and encourage her to breathe in rhythm. These are pretence, she knows, and I know and yet her brain welcomes them, clinging on to them for a modicum of relief.

Time to push again. This cycle continues until an amazing change.

“PIba, one last push, I can see your baby’s head …”

“Urgh,” she yelps, her hands now fists as she forces her pelvic region to bare down.

A small green head pops out between her legs, which I cradle and then in a rush, the rest of the body wriggles and slips out. I juggle and recover. She tries to sit upright.

“Lay down,” I command.

“I must do … things and then return to my duties …”

I grab the baby, slime and all and place the newborn life upon her chest, umbilical cord still attached. I then take her arms and wrap them around the baby. Instinct takes over and the baby mouths for milk. I take a bold liberty and undo the leather bindings of her shirt revealing one engorged breast. I shift the baby until I am certain erm she? Yes, she latches on. There is worry in the eyes of the mother.

“I am Lord Hob. On this Farm, you do as I say. Now, I tell you to suckle your newborn, rest and worry about nothing else.”

The lines around her eyes relax, until her face is near enough smooth once again … glowing. This ‘look’ I have seen before … where? When?

After one breast is dry, I shift her daughter to the other. This breast though is comfort, not nourishment. Somewhere over the course of feeding the umbilical cord detaches from the newborn, shrinking and withdrawing. The mother asleep startles awake and grunts. Next moment her body expels the afterbirth.

She looks to me, eyes like saucers.

“This happens naturally upon feeding, whatever you have been told about the birthing process is more wrong than right. I will inspect the afterbirth to allay any fears you may have, but I don’t expect anything bad.”

She hasn’t any fight left, accepting my words because they present the easy way, right or wrong not a concern for the moment. I don’t recognise her, and giving birth now confirms she belongs to another, so I can only assume Blood Suns tribe. While not skin and bones, very few meals have been eaten by her for several days.

I muck about in the afterbirth checking for any missing portions or abnormalities. The abnormalities aren’t something I can go, ‘look there’, I am not the expert by any means, yet something jarring even I can detect. I don’t know what to do when I do find one, but I will cross that bridge when I come to it.

A clearing of a throat alerts me to the presence of another and I face my inquisitor.

“Husband … erm what are you doing? She was to birth and then return, being one of the healthier guests there are tasks waiting for her and you allow her to rest!” chides Rexa.

I raise my hands, black dripping from them and push them out towards her.

My wife takes a step back, eyes narrowing. “Husband!”

“Mother and daughter are doing well wife, leave them be, find another to do her duties today. Tomorrow if well enough she can resume her duties.”

My wife puffs out her cheeks, cute I think … she stomps off and then returns. “I am in charge of the newcomers am I not?”

“Yes, my wife, you are.” I pile the afterbirth and umbilical cord away from mother and daughter.

“Well?”

“See that growing baby inside of you, wife.” Her hands immediately slide over her budding belly. “I intend to be there when you give birth also and I will treat you in the same way or perhaps even more doting than I am now because I wish with all my heart for mother and child to survive.”

Rexa sniffs. “Well don’t spoil them too much, they will never return to work claiming they need to mother their child or something stupid.”

She turns yet doesn’t escape, my hand, blood drying on skin grabs around her waist. “If you and my child survive, you will be mothering our child until I say different.”

Rexa wilts under my gaze. “But husband, who will look after you …?”

“I think I am doing better than well now, so let’s wait. In the meanwhile, I will follow you, can you lead me to a bed, and I will set mother and child down to rest.”

Her smooth reply part sulk and part coy. “I lose a worker and a room, your care for the newcomer extreme husband. You make your wife jealous … coddling a stranger as you do.”

Many a frail goblin stares, as I stride into the long Hut, none question or challenge. Settling them in, I turn and address the impromptu gathering.

“Pregnant women will not run away to a quiet place to have their child and then return success or failure to work afterwards. You will tell my wife Rexa when you feel you are ready, and she will send someone to fetch me. Then together we will deliver your baby. This is the only way for childbirth to happen on my Farm.”

I grab my wife around the shoulders and kiss her upon the lips. As I break from the kiss, I whisper, “Be certain to fetch me.” My eyes are hard and cold, her skin goosebumps slightly, so I release her from my embrace.

“Yes,” she croaks, a single word and no more.

A rising crescendo of chatter erupts after I leave.