Busy days and homely nights pass by. During this time there is no more news regarding Duzsia, which inflicts me with a touch of unexpected melancholy. As the influx of Blood Suns slows to a trickle of ones or twos who don’t recognise her name, most of my wives and certainly Zeb believe she is lost or worse. Around me at least, none mention her by name and there is an agreed ignorance.

The discovery of a bean-like plant by one of the Ten Spears produces a flurry of farm activity in the fallow field much to Jotor’s joy and relief. Unplanted ground a sacrilege to him. Another Ten Spears perfect the art of harvesting beehives and as the sown fields flower, they thrive, the large pots to house the bees being produced from the Farm’s kiln.

After listening to Vuz complain, for the umpteenth time about the distance his potters need to travel for clay I mention the dirty water I drank from during my urgent journey to answer the Head Hob’s call. Investigating the site his potters discover the stream headwaters emerge from a clay deposit and using the wagon they haul vast amounts of clay. To their credit, they also perfect the consumption of tree stumps into charcoal. They surround the stump with logs of wood, standing on their ends, then build a clay oven around logs and stump and set the whole on fire. Once the fire rages they block lower air holes to starve the fire of oxygen to heat and charcoal the stump. They repeat this as often as required until the stump is no more, much to the delight of Jotor. I can appreciate his position; the cleared ground will become a new western field and therefore expands the Farm away from the tribal lands.

I attend several births, although not all, enough to keep my promise yet I strictly observe, leaving the actual delivery to my Head Goblin of Childbirth and her assistants. All successful, all proud Blood Suns’ mothers. My wives and many female goblins on the Farm begin to show. My day of reckoning approaches.

Leaning against the western wall of the Kitchen in the morning shade I take great delight in observing the children and their sling practice. While further east of them Koria and Vuzsia instruct teenagers and older goblins in the fine art of archery. This is how I now spend my days. I wait with occasional interruptions, reactive. I seem paralysed, nervous, the furnace is under construction and therefore iron weapons and tools almost within my grasp. Once plentiful I believe iron weapons and more importantly tools, will assure the Farm and the goblins themselves will be able to advance. The tribes are the variable, so far not making an appearance and each day they delay the more certain I am they will. Then there is Duzsia …

“Lord?”

I don’t need to face the caller. “Yes, Zeb.”

“We have some volunteers to serve the Head Hob as bodyguards …”

Do we now, I think to myself as I swivel about-face. Five females, all Blood Suns if I am not mistaken and none shy away from my gaze as my eyes fall upon them in turn. I approach the Bow and Spear armed line-up, check for arm, and leg muscle mass and murmur my approval. They tolerate my squeezing and prodding of their limbs in silence.

Zeb reports further. “They have all spent many days hunting with a Ten Spear, otherwise practising daily with either weapon, archery with Koria and Vuzsia and spear-wielding with several of the older Blood Suns’ males who remember such skills.”

I leave the line and position myself before them. “You realise the Head Hob is a Hobgoblin in every sense, he is true to his nature …”

They nod. None speak. None glance sideways searching for assurance in the others standing in line.

“He will expect undying loyalty, obeying his orders even before mine, for example, you are to protect his life and if necessary, sacrifice your own.”

“Yes, Lord,” they reply as one.

“Keep practising for now.”

They glance a Zeb. “You heard Lord Hob, go for now.”

They break from the line-up and race towards Koria and Vuzsia.

“What do you think Zeb?”

His eyes are upon them as much as mine. “I am not certain why they wish to be bodyguards for the Head Hob. There is a sense of uncertainty regarding the possible attack from the tribes and maybe they see this as a way to escape the Farm. They say they wish to serve you by serving as bodyguards to the Head Hob, but something rings hollow.”

They line up now, five in a straight line, drawing on their bows and after inspection from Koria for shape and technique release at round wooden targets, each scoring near bullseye hits from fifty paces.

“The Head Hob did order the cull on their tribe,” I say.

He chuckles. “There is that minor issue. So, they are a, no?”

“My initial thought was to trial them all at once with the Head Hob, but they aren’t cooks and if in league with each other that could prove fatal. Seka, for example, could probably fend off one easily enough as I suspect her skill with a dagger more than up to the task, but five, unlikely. Do they all come from the same village?”

Zeb scuffs his feet. “Difficult to be certain. Two are definitely from the same village as they arrived with the Head Goblin of Childbirth. The other three arrived with stray groups or so they say.”

“None from the Farm or Copper Village have come forward?”

He snickers before I finish my question, waving a hand before himself, trying to regain his composure. I wait.

His face finally straightens. “Lord, no offence, but any from the Farm are waiting to give birth. Those from the Copper Village are either hunting and eating meat or working around the Farm and eating meat. You have spoilt them, Lord.”

“They see the deliveries of meat to the Head Village, they know Seka is the Head Hobs’ cook …”

He shakes his head. “Do they? Here they know for certain, and they would rather stay with the Hob they know …”

“What of the threat from the tribes?” I push.

“They listen to the Ten Spears reports as much as anyone and the tribes seem to be ignoring us … I am sorry Lord you have made Farm life safe and predictable.”

This further confuses why the Blood Suns would volunteer.

“Anything else?” I ask, somewhat defeated.

“Do you still intend on taking an iron axe to the Smith Hob?”

Where did that question come from, I wonder? I suspect Milga as she has been nagging me about this same thing of late.

“What are my chances of keeping such a tool secret?” I notice his sigh and I return an all-knowing smile. “Exactly. Better to confront him, offer to teach him and try to gain him as an ally.”

“Who will be going with you?”

“My wives are heavily pregnant, and I suspect Milga is also.” I give Zeb a wink. He squirms yet stays his ground. “Who else?”

“A Ten Spear? What about Vuzsia?”

Placing my hands behind my back I pace away from him, enjoying the warmth of the sun upon my skin and thinking. The Smith Hob may anger and charge me, do I want his death? Accidental or otherwise? Maybe neutral ground would be best, the Head Village and ask the Head Hob to summon him? Yes, that is the way to go …

“Equip a Ten Spear with iron-tipped spears and they can escort me,” I declare. They will remain outside the Head Hob’s cottage, their presence reassurance for Zeb and no more.

“Vuzsia?” he asks, still pushing for her inclusion.

“Why?”

“Dead Eye. A deadly archer is always useful if things don’t turn out the way you expect. A purposeful arrow to the thigh better than a hasty arrow to the eye … I always say.” He smiles like he made the best rhyme ever.

I open my mouth to speak and close it instead, shaking my head. I try again. “Vuzsia and some iron-tipped arrows would be useful. Your rhyme did nothing to convince me, just so you know.”

He smiles and waving an arm, wanders off. I suspect to tell Milga and then make the arrangements.

---

I survey the Farm, note the arrival of each of my wives from their various places of duty and lament the passing of more idle days. Milga assures me none of the Tribes are gathering near our fence line and I must accept that truth. They should have made their move by now; the crops are bursting with produce and therefore ready to plunder. I begin to doubt my judgement in the matter and the misreading of their motives. How could I be this wrong? A wife brings my mind back to my current purpose.

“We have duties husband … while we still can, why do you gather us here?” asks Koria, her hands lying upon her baby bump.

I look upon each wife in turn, Koria, Luda, Rexa, Bekto, Zuxa and Lazsia. I lament those missing, Duzsia, Ligia and while only a whim of sorts, Karo. No, not on a whim, to torture Zoria for some insane reason, which I can’t understand why. As instructed, they each dress in a one-piece linen cloth oversized shirt. Short sleeves with a hem dropping below their knees. The loose fit accommodates their change in shape. I stall no further.

“The death during childbirth of Zana and Gato has made me realise the capturing and holding of your spirits while pregnant is a risk I don’t wish to carry with me.” I wave down their protests. “If after childbirth you wish to renew the ceremony, I will be more than happy to oblige. But we must all face the facts, your pregnancies to me place you in great danger and if the worse were to happen I don’t wish to leave you to die spiritless. You are all in my heart now and such a fate is only deserving of an enemy of mine, not my wife.”

How can I make such a statement? Because of Zana and Gato – my confusion over how they belonged to me resolving my responsibility or perception of responsibility for my official wives. They are more than simply my chattels – am I succumbing, going, native?

Bekto speaks first. “Lord we have been practising our childbirth technique. After three attempts due to upside-down babies, two babies and one mother have survived cutting open their bellies. Given Rora is also a Blood Suns the rest of the tribe don’t blame us for any failures, in fact, most births now are routine, well as routine as childbirth can be …”

“Did you do the stitching?”

She beams a smile at me. “Yes, Lord.”

“Who has your skill to do the same for you?”

Bekto glances about. “My sister-wives practice Lord.”

Koria steps forward and wraps an arm around Bekto’s shoulders. “We are all taking turns in each role, practising. We will get the chance to actually perform soon Lord as the Blood Suns continue to give birth.”

I walk into the river. The cool refreshing water eddies around my legs as I face about. To a wife, they shed tears, although bravely they refuse to sob. I point at Bekto. She shakes her head.

“Come to me wife, I need to return your spirit, you of all my wives face the greatest danger. You alone have the skills to save the others, none have the skills to save you and if the worst should happen, I will be living with the guilt of keeping your spirit.” My eyes close. “An unforgivable reminder of my selfishness.” My eyes open and Bekto stands before me, wiping away her tears, while her bottom lip trembles.

The only wife exempted, yet present is Rexa, daughter of Jotor and acquired by arrangement. As much as I don’t trust Zoria, I do trust Rexa and if you asked me why I wouldn’t be able to answer.

---

I embrace my six wives, all wet to differing degrees including Rexa who hugged each of her sister-wives as they recovered. We hurry to my cabin, and I delight in observing them change out of their wet shirts. Naked, their predatory eyes turn upon me and they insist on stripping off my wet clothes, a linen shirt, and long pants. Once skin dry, we frolic about in the bed, my hands unable to restrain themselves as I cup their growing bellies at every opportunity. Their warm smiles of delight each time amble reward. We settle down, cuddling, skin on skin contact. Their need to be physically close to me to make up I suppose for the loss of their spiritual link. A link which I know to be false, yet their moist eyes and obvious distress after the ceremony convincing me otherwise. I can’t explain my need, it simply is.

“Lord, could we celebrate on the bank of the river, with food and joy? The weather is ideal for being outside instead of the dull indoors?” asks Lazsia.

A brief silence and then Koria voices her support. In a crescendo of spontaneous accord, my other wives add their voices. Helpless, I nod in agreement and shortly after, clothed, we tumble out of my Cabin. My wives attend to the arrangements while I saunter towards the river.

Vuz hurries towards me, a couple of his lackeys behind him and I stop to receive them.

“Lord.” He waves his hand back to the first lackey. “The axe is done.” He waves to the other lackey. “Ten spear tips and twenty arrowheads also as requested by Zeb on your behalf.”

The iron axe head is mounted on a smooth hardwood handle and as I practice swing the weapon, while primitive, is serviceable and for now the only one on this planet. I inspect the spear tips and arrowheads. Each has been worked to a sharp edge and once mounted will be ready.

“You have done well my Head Goblin of Potters. See that these are made ready.” I nod to the spear and arrow points. “Fit-out my first Ten Spears with the finished spears and Emissary Vuzsia with the finished arrows.”

He raises an eyebrow and I answer before he can question.

“Ten more spear points and ten more arrow points and you may then experiment with your pottery. Our iron production will have to halt for a while after this last order.”

He smiles and nods. Bowing as he retreats with his lackeys. I deviate slightly from my intended destination, somewhat west and towards Vuzsia by the river who directs the archery training single-handed, since Koria is currently doing my bidding.

“Take a break, drink, recover your arrows,” she says, before I am near. Her class follows her instructions while she grabs for a waterskin and swivels about to face me.

“You honour me with your presence,” she quips and then takes a drink. Rivulets of glistening sweat run down her neck, gathering upon her chest ... disappearing between twin flesh mounds.

“I need to introduce you to the Head Hob. I am thinking three days from now?”

She almost drops the waterskin. “Why? My title of Emissary is a charade. What does a Tribe mean to him except for culling or not?” She waves a dismissive hand at me.

“You will give me an excuse to go and also a reason to summon the Smith Hob, for I intend to gift you ten arrows with iron arrowheads and by way of their existence convince the Smith Hob to mine and smelt iron instead of copper.”

She smiles, which widens to expose her sharp pointy teeth. Shakes her head and begins to laugh while bending over, unable to hold her demeanour. I march forward one step, stomping my boot down, which is warning enough. She straightens and smooths out her leather vest, not out of necessity, but a nervous habit.

She casts me a contrite bowing of her head. “I apologise Lord Hob, but I am privy to the Farm gossip and most believe the Smith Hob would rather slay you than be told how to Smith. I for one don’t wish to be subject to his wrath.”

I free from my belt, the axe from behind my back and flash the weapon before her eyes in a display of slashing rotations. Her eyes and face finally show serious interest.

“So much iron, sharp and made ready.” Her eyes bounce from the axe to mine. “You will challenge the Smith Hob if needed, that is your plan.”

My turn to nod. “As a Keen Eye Archer, you would be useful in such a circumstance. A goblin cannot slay a Hob and I don’t wish to. So, one or more arrows in thighs or biceps could prove useful to slow down any rage and possibly encourage further discussion.”

Behind her eyes, she does her own mental arithmetic. Her growing smile confirming if nothing else she will witness a historic moment and how could she pass that up. “I will escort you, as an Emissary of the Flint Arrows of course, even if the iron arrows will feel out of place in my quiver.”

As I turn, I glance back. “Know that a Ten Spears, with iron-tipped spears will also accompany us, just in case the Smith Hob brings any friends.”

“Friends or not, no goblin would attack a Hob and perhaps for such a venture, some armour would be useful,” she says, her words following me while I head towards the gathering of my wives at the place of our riverside picnic.

Some armour? I flick her a look, too late, her attention is back with her students. Is that a hint?

“Hurry to your wives, Lord, they seem like children themselves now with their bellies full.”

My eyes remain on my wives, ignoring the newcomer. Her approach obvious to Vuzsia and I suspect the reason behind her comment about armour.

“Suda the Faithful, wife of Zeb,” I say with a disappointing tone. “Why do you honour me with your presence?”

“None,” she murmurs. “Although for a beast, I am pleased the impending births reveal a glimmer of affection for those who will die in childbirth.”

A knot begins to form within my stomach and but for Zeb, my fingers would already be around her throat. Instead …

“Yes, if so, I must search for replacements …”

Silent as any Flint Arrows huntress she shuffles slightly away from me. “Yes, Lord, of course, well I will …”

“Instead of doing this myself, I believe you will be ideal.”

“What?” she squeaks, the shortness of the word revealing her surprise to my delight.

“Your womb is productive, fruitful and I am therefore certain your eye would select the most fertile of future wives for me.”

Her breathing grows haggard. “No longer Lord, I am past such honour and hence my eye would be … would be …”

I look upon her, hands fidgeting. “Ideal!” I declare.

“No Lord, without the hope of pregnancy for myself I would question my suitability.” Her eyes glance at mine and then focus on my waiting wives. “Zeb is your loyal lackey Lord. I am certain he will throw himself into this task also.”

“Yes, good point.” A long breath of relief escapes between her lips. She assumes I will, as she suggests assign this task to Zeb, yet I have another solution. “I have heard from a reliable source.” Not really but she doesn’t know! “The Matriarch of the Grim Weavers is pregnant from my loins, so I believe the issue settled.”

“Settled Lord?” Her eyes wide and now staring at me. “You don’t mean? What of Zeb, my husband?”

“I am certain my lackey won’t be upset not being chosen and once pregnant you will be ideal for this task.”

She gulps, “Lord, I am not one of your wives – and don’t wish to be as I am already married.”

I chortle. “Look around Suda the faithful, most of those pregnant aren’t married to me, yet carry my seed and their husbands didn’t begrudge my planting. I am certain Zeb, my lackey, as you point out won’t protest either.” My arm wraps around her shoulder, my hand dangling over her left breast. “Walk with me, I will proclaim our plan to my wives, and I am certain they will cheer on my planting of you immediately, after all, we can’t waste a day.”

“B … By the river, daylight?” Her head shakes, bottom lip trembling. “You are too busy to be distracted by me, hurry to your wives, I am sure your time is precious. Zeb says you are always busy, and you know, your wives may be able to survive as I hear they are practising birth skills and the like.”

“You are mistaken Suda the faithful, I am certain Zeb would talk to you of my idleness, my waiting for the tribes and so forth. I have time to kill or in your case plant.”

Her arms wrap around her body, her head shaking in denial. “No Lord.” Her eyes open bright and wide, she has an alternative for me perhaps? “Zeb tells me about the armour, you are interested in the Flint Arrows relic. Yes?”

“A legend, rumour. Remember your daughters and Milga are Flint Arrows, and none knew of such armour.” I sigh, slumping my shoulders and with my arm around her shoulder, I ensure she feels the weight of my despondency.

She tries to struggle free, and I don’t allow her a modicum of leeway. She must earn her release.

“There is, talk. The Flint Arrows hail a great victory of the past over a Warrior Hob, there is proof of this. Once paraded before the entire tribe now kept safe … known by only a few. Wouldn’t the hunt for this be worthy of your time … instead of, well farming my loins?”

“I will be quick with you, searching the Flint Arrows tribal lands an arduous task and they may disagree of course!” I release a happy chuckle and squeeze her upper arm, dragging her body closer to mine.

“My age Lord. I … I will require multiple plantings, time better spent elsewhere. I have heard the armour rests in a hidden, sacred cave Lord. In the mountains, there is a valley, one which has been scooped out of the mountainside, unmistakable.”

This valley sounds remarkably like the Elder’s cave one and if so, one in the southern mountain range and now it would seem a duplicate in the northern mountain range. I would need to find two more to be absolutely certain … although there would be other signs.

I drag her body around to face me, a hand heavy upon each of her shoulders. She yelps of course. “Does your tribal legends talk of a great darkness, the blotting out of the sun?”

Her brow furrows, all other signs of fright and indignation disappearing. “Y … yes, Lord. The great darkness heralded the arrival of the Warrior Hob and then after a time Hobgoblins, the retellings are of events, the order known, the time between less certain … what do you know of these inner secrets, how do you know?” Her voice grows bold and demanding, this is knowledge only a few know and highly guarded. I am not surprised the Flint Arrows of all the tribes remember their legends, their society is isolated and impervious, few able to successfully raid, take wives and otherwise plunder.

I squeeze her shoulders, my fingers digging in. “The truth,” I demand.

Her eyes moisten. “There is no more truth Lord. You have guessed or know it all.”

I snipe, “There is always more truth.” She shakes her head in denial. “Swear on your daughter’s lives.”

Under the grip of my fingers, I detect a determination returning to her body. “You wouldn’t harm them. They tell of your affection … they carry your children.”

I throw her to the ground. Koria and Luda jumping to their feet, their questioning faces glowering at me, and I realise I shouldn’t have.