Zeb leans over and whispers, “Your latest wife can read Lord. She insisted on witnessing me write her name down at the bottom of the list.”

Inwardly I smile, outwardly I nod, she is more than an actress, she is the spy she claims to be.

Standing before Zeb and me, hands wringing, feet shuffling are the lucky thirteen former Blood Suns potters, all males.

“Can you, given time, reconstruct a kiln and fire clay into jars and so forth?”

They exchange glances and share nods. Three try to speak at once, so I assume they’re at least three foreman or masters in the group, the others therefore underlings.

“Do I slay two of you so only one speaks or can you agree on taking turns perhaps?”

They all instantly shut their mouths and gulp. Briefly sharing furtive eye contact they gather in a huddle and exchange several harsh words. I wait. The other ten potters stand off to one side kicking at the ground, engaging in idle chatter. They have been trained to wait upon their betters without sufferance I am almost certain.

One of the three steps forward. “I am Vuz, Head Goblin of the Potters, on my left is Ut, Master Potter and on my right is Lud, Master Potter. For food, shelter and safety we are happy to serve the Lord of Goblins.”

“Can you answer my question, Vuz, Head Goblin of the Potters?” My saying his name and title confirmation of his title, in fact, he flashes a celebratory grin as Speaker of Law Zeb scribes his name into the Farm’s leather scroll. The scroll, an invention or replication of Flint Arrows tribal practice instigated by Zeb, almost certainly behind my back, figuratively and physically. The goblins, especially of tribal origin recognise the purpose and embrace the addition of their names to the Farm’s ledger.

“Yes Lord, depending upon size, number and how many goblins assist in the task.”

“Explain some of the challenges?”

“The clay is first and foremost, we need to gather from the river, the Head Village for all their skill, don’t trap all the clay. We will need protection when we do, previously our berserk cousins would get drunk and use us for warrior practice, now I think others roam about, equally deadly. Wood is next for the firing. We make the bricks first and then fashion them into a kiln.”

“Ut and Lud, take six of your helpers and scout out a location for the kiln. Don’t choose the East side of the Farm, we expect an attack from that direction. The road to the Head Village leads out South, the river isn’t that far further South, roughly in the same direction. It also has the benefit of not bordering on your former lands, so I don’t expect you to meet strangers, more likely my hunters.”

They nod, select six of those standing by and leave.

“Now Vuz I have a different purpose in mind than pottery.” I wave in the other lessor potters and begin my explanation. He isn’t supportive, to begin with until I explain the modifications needed in the design of the kiln, the addition of the bellows to raise the temperature of the fire. Then I order him to create clay furnaces to burn wood and under the right conditions transform the wood into charcoal so the temperature within the kiln will be higher again. His eyes almost glaze over with the possibilities. Before he dreams too much, I explain he needs to use his kiln, now blast furnace to smelt iron and only once this is done can he return to pottery. The fact all our lives depend upon this assures his motivation.

I inspect the four potter goblins with him and then ask my question. “Who wishes to become the Head Goblin of the Smiths?”

They swallow as one, fidget, scuff their shoes and avoid looking at me. “None then?”

Vuz steps forward. “Lord we know of the Smith Hob, this title you ask is a direct challenge to him and as such any goblin will be simply fated to die …”

“Yes, I suppose except he will need to slay me first, but I could never promise I will always be there when you need me. Let me think upon this some more … you are all dismissed, you have much to do. If you need more help, ask my Speaker of Law, many of your tribe joined us today.”

“Unfortunately, most of them are female Lord …” mutters Vuz.

I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t see the problem, if you need strength use two females where you would otherwise use one male …” I turn about and leave him with that thought, my Speaker of Law following half a step behind on my left-hand side. My destination the kitchen cabin and two goblins who know the Smith Hob best.

---

Dusk is upon the Farm and this night’s feast is underway. I claim a haunch from one of the two spit boars and pause to ensure the Champion of Mothers are next. Three Mothers step forward, all honey pot nursing Blood Suns.

My wives wait for me at my cabin, and I place the leg upon the table ripping off a couple of portions, leaving the rest as I stride towards the kitchen cabin.

My two special wives are together under furs upon the floor of the kitchen cabin, snoring. They must be close to dropping, given their early night. I wave the seared boar flesh over their prodigious noses … their mouths try to chow down on the imaginary food they half-dream of. I complete their dream by lowering the flesh and upon the taste they wake, with sharp tooth smiles, while continuing to shred the morsels of food.

“I need some advice wives … I plan to smelt the balls of ore you sniffed out into strong weapons and tools, stronger than copper like the Smith Hob moulds and I need a title for the goblin who leads this work for me …”

With too much information and shocking revelations at once, they stop chewing, eyes almost out of their heads.

“Smith Hob hates that ore husband, he would whip any of us who ‘found it’, so we needed to hide the ore away whenever we found deposits,” offers Zana.

Gato adds, “The title will make little difference once he discovers a goblin is smelting an ore he can’t. You will need to kill him, husband, there is no other way.”

“What if I worked the ore?”

“He would need to challenge you … he doesn’t have a choice,” says Gato. A tear springs from an eye. Is that for me or him I wonder?

Gato struggles to her feet embracing me as best she can, given the size of her belly now. “We would weep endlessly husband if he … he, well, you know. We are happy being your wives, we are happy when we see you command and plot. We know you are truly the Lord of Goblins as they say …” She bursts into tears. Zana begins to sob.

A splash of fluid falls upon my boots. Gato looks up at me and swallows.

“My time has come husband …” There is paralysing fear in her eyes. “You must …”

I place a finger across her lips. “Your husband is staying … there is no argument in this, lay down.” I carry most of her weight and lay her upon one fur in particular. Somehow, I know this is her favourite, how I ask myself?

I glide my hands over her belly, the baby hasn’t turned yet and while we can I remove all her clothes, she doesn’t protest happy to hold any part of me within reach as I do so.

“What … can I do husband?” asks Zana.

“Prepare your own bed as I fear your time isn’t far away either, the night I took you and your sisters short. You and Gato have done most things together, so I don’t see this being any different.”

She nods slowly and carefully manoeuvres herself to prepare her birthing bed.

I rush to gather some cloth and a bucket of water from behind the kitchen bench, knowing both have been boiled beforehand, checking with Gato to be certain. I part her legs, the cervix isn’t dilated at all, not even a finger width. Placing my hands upon her belly I hope for better news. Nothing. I suspect the baby too large, certainly larger than goblin size given my previous two deliveries as a midwife.

“Your baby isn’t turning my wife and I must try and encourage him or her …”

I hope to simply coach the natural process and after much effort fail. She reads her doom in my face and I need to escape her gaze, choosing to inspect her cervix. Dilation, goblin fist size, nowhere near enough.

“Husband I must push …”

“No, there is … there is no way clear for our baby …”

“The urges husband, they grip my loins heavily …”

Where are her contractions? I inspect her cervix, two fists, progress. Is she confusing her urge to push with contraction pain? Yet her baby will be born, and if upside down, almost an impossibility with no birthing tools like forceps or suction apparatus. I will have to do a Caesarean birth to deliver this child. I reconcile my decision by convincing myself of a simple truth. As it stands both mother and child will die, whereas there is a chance the child will survive… with a Caesarean.

“Gato your baby is too big to be born between your legs …”

She nods slowly. “I know husband … I have come to accept I must die for our child to live … I know the Smith Hob intends to cut out the babies of our sisters after they have died … he carries a sharp knife on him at all times and saves it for this one purpose … you must do the same husband …”

My chest aches, why do I care? My Hob within is quiet … now he runs … this is women’s business the dull reply.

“Zana can you still move?”

“I can crawl husband …”

“Have you lost your water?”

“No, husband.”

A glance across to her, she lies. I catch her sopping the last dregs up. She is running out of time also.

“See if you can yell for help at the door, Zeb should be there, we need sinew, bone needles and honey … try your best.”

I remember the last time Zeb and I were asking questions about women’s business, just the threat of talking about the subject and he couldn’t wait to leave. He needs to be there …

Gato’s contractions taper off she is fully dilated, yet I know her success will make no difference.

“Husband.”

She gasps the word … Zana is lying halfway to the doorway, is she returning, or didn’t she make it?

“Go to my sister-wife husband there is nothing you can do for me …”

I race away from Gato and scope up Zana, quickly returning to her bed of furs and gently lay her down. Next, I get busy removing her clothes. Her belly is larger than Gato’s yet upon slipping my hands over I am certain the baby has miraculously turned. Zana screams as another contraction hits her cervix. Shouldn’t someone come running to check on the noise? Then I remember the feast and the newcomers …

“Gato, on your hands and knees, crawl as far as you can …” I don’t believe this will work, pure coincidence but I need to try something.

“Zana, did you manage to call someone? Zana?”

“I think so Lord … someone ran off at least …”

“Husband …”

Gato is on her side, gritting her teeth and I sprint to her, kneeling to scope her up also and return her.

My hands, urgent, trying to feel for change to convince me her baby has turned … nothing. I spare some time for Zana; her dilation is progressing, and her baby has dropped and yet the size of her stomach suggests failure … I turn back to Gato. I am helpless. I climb to my feet, I must call for help, why didn’t I do this sooner … I thought I could do anything, that is why. Overconfident and underqualified. Two successful deliveries and I believe myself an expert.

A hand grabs my arm. “Husband, cut my baby out, with my last breath I would like to see him and place him upon my breast … I could die happy … please …” She values her own life so low … Her eyes flutter to the back of her head, she is going, the stress, the baby’s weight upon her spine for so long, why?

I grab my knife; I hover over her belly and then slice. A weak yelp is her only reaction. Her chest falls … I slice through her abdomen and then womb, blood spreads yet not the volume I thought. I dig a hand in and as light a touch as possible behind the baby’s head I drag the child forth. Resistance. What? Light! I need light! Where is the help? I plunge my hand deeper, along the length of the baby and grip the shoulders until half the head is clear. Gato doesn’t make a sound. Then I understand. The baby’s face is blue-green, the umbilical cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck. I delicately slice the cord and once done the baby comes away. Arms and legs dangle over the sides of my hand. I carry the dead child to the breast of the mother; the light has gone from her eyes. I weep.

“Hus … band.” Her rasping voice calls me back from my sorrow, there is another.

Zana Is fully dilated, for a goblin mother. The baby is in position.

“Push wife …” I wipe away my tears. I know she will not be able to birth naturally …

I need help. “Wife I will return …” I close my ears to her desperate plea for me to stay beside her, she fears being alone, dying slowly alone.

I wrench the kitchen cabin door open, or I try. The crossbeam must be across on the outside. Someone – the help Zana called upon has locked us in. I crash into the door several times, ignoring any pain due to desperation. I burst through and stare out. There is dancing, yelling and shouting. A celebration in full swing.

“Zeb!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

All fall silent in an instant. The firelight bright enough to permit any to see the black blood dripping from my hands.

“Bring sinew, bone needles and honey. Now!” I bellow and swivel about and return to my wife and her screaming, which I am sure all nearby can now hear.

I wipe the sweat from her brow, and she tries to smile, it is stolen by pain as she pushes again. I inspect. “The head of your baby is crowning wife …” I am certain now the baby’s head is too big. The dark green complexion confirmation both of my wives carried Hobgoblin babes to term.

There is noise at the door and several goblins trample into the kitchen cabin.

The Mother of Children holds out her pot of honey. Luda confirms she has sinew and Bekto hands me several sizes of bone needles. I place them about my labouring wife.

“Zana, you have done amazingly well and yet your Hobgoblin baby is too big and healthy to be born between your legs.”

She nods. “Gato and I knew husband. Take your heir, his mother is resigned to death.”

“No, I have a plan …”

“Can I hold Gato’s hand or is she now lifeless husband?”

“To cut the baby from your belly will be the last option … I am going to try something else since you have done so well.” I try to offer encouragement and yet her face is dull, the green of her complexion fading …

“This will hurt wife …”

There is no response … except the clenching of her teeth.

Knife in hand I slice first one side and then the other of her opening, the baby’s head shifts forward after a push and yet this is not enough! Blood oozes from the twin wounds as I try to think of something else. All are silent around me except for my wife’s screams as she tries to push out a baby too large for her.

“I must cut your belly wife …” Again, no response, her eyes are shut tight.

I slice as near to her abdomen as I can, the skin and then the womb. Shifting the bloody cut flesh aside I grab at the baby’s body, a light tug. Nothing. My wife pushes. I try to pull with more strength. “Push the head back inside,” I call out. I can’t apply any more strength; I feel as even now the baby’s body is too fragile. My hands feel the moment of loss. My wife first, blood stops flowing, her chest rises no more and eyes remain shut. Our baby next, there is no movement.

I rock back onto my bottom, wrapping my arms around my knees hugging them into my chest ignoring the blood on my hands. A splash of water and then a damp cloth is wiping away the blood. Luda tends me.

Words float into my head. I’m not aware of my surroundings …

“Husband, we will clean up …” says a voice I am certain I know.

Don’t they see, don’t they understand this is their fate also unless something can be done … The hobgoblin baby is too large to be birthed naturally by a goblin mother. Common sense would have told me that if I listened instead of just wishing away the impossibility. Caesarean is the only choice, yet the mother is … certain to die.

I raise my voice. “Leave everything,”

All the clean-up and fussing stops. As I look upon those around me, they return pity. I don’t need pity I need to learn from this waste of life. Not to mention my bravado, which stops now.

“Luda, Bekto and you.” I nod towards the Mother of Children. “Stay, all others leave.”

The remaining three stare at me, wondering if I am going to rage and slaughter them or if not, something else given my present state, a male suffering from woman’s business.

“Your name?” I ask her.

“Rora, Lord. Mother of Children you named me.”

“Seven births you have survived alone?”

Her head drops slightly. “Eleven births I have survived, from them seven living children Lord.”

“You will therefore know and understand the rhythm of childbirth, you know first this usually and then that, read the signs in others as you have experienced them so many times in your own body. Yes?”

Her hands fidget. She wonders where this question will take her. Therefore, I must reassure her.

“I am wondering Mother of Children if you would accept the position of Head Goblin of Childbirth?”

She drops to her knees, sighing. “Lord … I am sorry … I thought, I thought bad thoughts, never anything like the honour you offer me, and I have only arrived on your Farm. What about others who may covet the title?”

I manage a smile through my sorrow. “I only created it several heartbeats ago so only us four know it exists.”

She blinks, her hands squirming over her heart. “When will others know?”

“After you accept, and my Speaker of Law writes your name into the role and announces you to the Farm.”

“Then yes Lord, I accept with gratitude the title, Head Goblin of Childbirth. What must I do to keep the title?”

I take her hands in my now clean ones. Her eyes naturally find mine. “You must train others in all the secrets and tells you know about childbirth. You must be available to assist any giving birth when no one else can. You must provide answers to any questions from others about childbirth, that sort of thing.”

“I … I can do that Lord.”

“One last thing.” I raise a finger. “You must review as many childbirths as you can with others, share wisdom and knowledge, just in case someone knows a portion of knowledge you don’t. Then you can share this knowledge. You will know you are successful when most babies and their mothers survive childbirth and I expect to bury fewer babies with you as the Head of Childbirth.” My eyes look away from the dead babies nearby and return to stare into hers’.

“Yes, Lord I will ensure childbirth is a glorious experience, a time of joy, not heartbreak.”

I release her hands. “Bekto, I need your skill. I need you to sew up the bellies of both Zana and Gato as if their lives depended upon your skill. I need you to be familiar with sewing flesh back together, the womb and the outer skin. The stitches must be close enough to heal, yet not so tight as to easily tear even if the patient takes care when they feel well enough to move about. You must also practice sewing Zana’s entrance. You must teach others about what you find works best. When others cut or slice themselves due to other mishaps, practice your sewing on them.”

Biting her bottom lip, she jumps to attention, to answer. “Yes, Lord.”

“Luda as my second wife, you must ensure both women have the tools, goods and assistants they need, their success is your success. In fact, your very survival during childbirth could depend upon them both. I will not surrender another wife to childbirth death.”

“Lord, how will I stitch myself up after childbirth?” Bekto’s eyes go wide with the realisation.

“You must teach others and select a talented one who you will eventually trust with your own life because you are correct, you won’t be able to sew yourself up during childbirth. Nor can you sew others when you are in childbirth or recovering.”

She audibly gulps. I hug her to offer reassurance.

“Bekto start practice, Luda go fetch more sinew and Rora please organise others to clean up the kitchen cabin … first find my Speaker of Law and inform him of your new title so you have some authority to act as I ask.”

I rush from their sides without further explanation, my Hob side breathes a reliving sigh instead of erupting. For my part, I need to place the tragedy in the kitchen cabin behind me as I dive into the ink-black of night.