Cook number one or cook number two leaps upon me, arms around my neck as I squeeze through the makeshift opening in the Head Hob’s manor wall. Grabbing her by the waist I set her down and after glancing around determine I am in the Kitchen Storeroom, the pungent smells of fresh herbs and vegetables sealing the assessment.

As if waking up, the cook’s eyes blink and she grabs my arm in panic. “Lord, Seka, I fear she has … she is … she went to defend the Head Hob when another Hob bashed through the door …”

“Why didn’t you …” I shook my head and sprinted to the door of the Storeroom, managing by luck and skill to hurdle and dodge respectfully two goblins littering the Storeroom floor with their blood, throats cut on both.

Grasping a large pot blocking the door, two dead eyes examining me cause me to release the pot and jump back. My heart beating faster again. Checking the other pot and I found a second goblin corpse. Pocking their heads, they fell limp to one side revealing gaping throats. Dead eyes or throats with laughing smiles? I shake my head and roll each pot away succeeding in the task without glimpsing the occupants. I swing the door open and crouch alert in the doorway. The warmth of the Kitchen rolls over me carrying the dark acrid scent of goblin blood strong and unmistakable. Given their bronze armour, like those in the Storeroom, more invading goblins … throats cut once again. I can only imagine the assassin in Seka somehow striking from hiding or from the shadows, luring pairs to their deaths. Eight in the space of two rooms. Another two corpses, closer to the archway joining the Kitchen to the Entrance Room though they wear round sear marks upon their faces … she couldn’t hold back the cook within it would seem. Good for her, although by then she needed to break her cover ...

Peering around the Kitchen-Front Room archway I spy two goblins holding the front door now without hinges upright and in the silence overhear the eager shuffling of others, weapons, armour, and murmuring all combining to create a mood of anticipation. An audience perhaps? If so, I must urgently interrupt. Stepping back, I nock an arrow and prepare another. Easing around the edge of the archway I aim and release. The shuffling noise of before ceases after the arrow thunks into the wood of the door while piercing the neck of a goblin on the way. Nocking the second arrow, I smile as the second goblin begins to berate his companion for shirking until he spots my arrow impaling his throat confirming what his ears heard, however impossible. He looks up, mouth wide open in time to eat my second arrow. Both arrows affix the goblins to the Manor’s front door and in death, their dead weight continues to hold the door upright perpetuating the illusion the entrance to the manor remains intact. After the second arrow thunks into the wood, the silence is broken, a rattling of weapons accompanies an urgent exchange of words.

A feminine scream shatters the careful quiet and my body tenses in response. With urgency, I explode into action axe to hand charging into the Front Room. The closest goblin, caught in a crouching approach suffers my axe through his neck. As I jerk the axe back his companion stands to attention and stares, flecks of black blood from his now-dead partner spraying across his face. His mouth opening to shout a convenient place to lodge my axe and I split his lower jaw from his head.

The other three goblins present in the Front Room recover during my killing spree. One runs to the opposite room, one charges me, while the third dashes through the door into the Head Hob’s bedroom.

As my axe hooks the charging goblin’s spear shaft to one side, my fist smacks into his face. His body flips over backwards. In the background, a voice bellows out from the Head Hob’s bedroom.

“Hold him until I finish here!”

I retrieve the spear from the prone goblin at my feet, stab him through the eye and ready the spear for a throw. The third goblin runs out of the Head Hob’s bedroom, and I throw the drawn back spear. The bronze tip of the spear defeats his bronze ring armour, the force of my throw flinging the skewed body back, striking the wall beside the bedroom door and sliding down to the floor.

Advancing upon the bedroom door, a grimacing Hob face grins out while closing the door.

“Let me finish here first Farmer Hob …”

Another Hob? I stumble back trying to collect my thoughts and recover from the shock. I knew they existed, and they could be the smarts behind this attack, possibly leading the ambush of me … yet in the village, in the manor? Why would they target the Head Hob? Is he, their target? Somehow, ego maybe, I thought myself their target …

Pain lances my left shoulder. I glance down at the arrow shaft and then up while throwing myself to the right towards the Head Hob’s bedroom tumble rolling until back on my feet. The second arrow grazes my left thigh, my leather pants enough to prevent the drawing of blood. Three goblins, spears leading, charge me, while a fourth nocks another arrow behind them grinning. My height allows him a clear line of sight.

I lift the goblin body now at my feet, spear and all and hurl the dead weight in their direction. One dodges aside, the middle goblin tries to brace himself, while the last pauses. Following up behind my throw, I strike the indecisive first, the iron axe head planting in his skull, bronze helm, skin, and bone offering scant resistance. The archer swears as he nocks another arrow while I am oblivious about his previous release.

I jolt the axe from the goblin’s skull and toss the weapon to my left hand, middle goblin is down under the weight of the body, dodging goblin is climbing to his feet. Leaning down and forward my right-hand grabs the spear from the dying hands of my fresh kill. The swoosh of an arrow passes by my left ear. “My turn,” I mutter to myself.

Straightening while drawing back the spear I aim and let the weapon fly. The archer is busily nocking another arrow, his eyes going wide as he faces the unbelievable. The spear throw carries his convulsing body back through the Spare Room doorway. I turn back to the remaining two, pivoting in time to half dodge. A glancing thrust, the spear point penetrating my flesh above my hip, my body shift conveniently moving my hard leather armour aside. Axe in my left hand, right hand balled up into a fist I strike down upon the goblin’s head with all my strength and weight. The resulting snap of bones provides grim satisfaction as the goblin’s body drops, limp to the floor. My inner Hob rages within me as I draw the spear out of my flesh.

I continue the arc my withdrawing of the spear from my flesh starts, aiming for the head of the third goblin now attacking me. He dodges back while placing his spear upright, in the path of mine. They smash together and he staggers back still able to weakly wave his spear at me. I drop the spear, transferring my axe to my right hand. Dodging right, I grab the shaft of his stabbing spear in my left hand and stepping forward swing my axe down upon the base of his neck. As I draw back the axe, the severed artery releases my foe’s lifeblood. Black goblin blood paints the floor of the Front Room, while blood spray upon the walls provides an opportunity for macabre artistic interpretation. My inner Hob howls. I pluck the arrow from my shoulder trusting in my nanorobots to seal the wound and stem the blood loss. The bronze tips of their spears and arrows defeat my leather armour once again.

My boot kicks open the Head Hob’s bedroom door, the hinges surviving my assault. The Head Hob’s huge bed favours one side of the room, tight into the right-hand side far back corner.

In the left-hand side back corner, the unknown Hob turns his head towards me, a vicious grin upon his lips, tongue playing with one of his protruding mouth-tusks. At his feet, body propped up by the corner walls lays the Head Hob, multiple cuts upon his face and naked chest oozing blood, the light of life within his eyes dim. Along the wall between me and him lays the limp body of Seka. Blood flows from her mouth, a stain of black blood on the wall above her. As easy as I fling goblin bodies, so does this stranger it seems.

“You care for these vermin then …” he says.

My eyes return to the face of my foe. A force strikes my chest. I glance down. Standing out proudly, the handle of a bronze knife, the blade penetrating my leather armour and sinking into my flesh.

“When in battle, you need to ignore such sentiment and as Chief Hob, I shall teach you, yet sadly your death won’t permit you the time to learn the lesson.”

My peripheral vision catches his charge and the slashing blade at the end of it. Flinging my body right calling upon every modicum of strength within me as I realise the downward arc of the blade is rapidly catching up to my thigh flesh edge and I tense. My left leg will be useless, and I will be at his mercy. Then, thunk, the Head Hob’s huge bed saves me, his blade sinks into the hardwood, deep. Somehow, I manage a chortle as the Chief Hob now struggles to free his sword from the bed. I thought decapitation of a leg impossible …

Twice distraction has provided him with the advantage, no more.

Rolling to my feet, I advance and swing my axe down. My target isn’t his body. I aim for his sword arm. This maintains my distance from him, after all, I still have a knife in my chest. If I sever his arm the blood loss should be fatal. He releases his grip on the sword and jumps back while my axe completes an air swing.

“Nice recovery,” he says.

He smirks while withdrawing back towards the Head Hob and unsheathing another dagger. An air of supreme confidence surrounds him as I believe he takes several heartbeats to re-evaluates his foe, me.

With my boot I kick upon the exposed portion of his sword blade, the wood holds, and the blade end bends. I edge away from behind the bed until there is a clear path between us, it seems we have the same idea. He crouches ready to spring forward.

His top lip droops over his mouth tusks. “That wasn’t nice.”

“When you taste my axe blade, I am certain you will be all the better …”

“Come then whelp, let us trade blows and be done quickly!” he yells.

Ten paces apart we charge each other, weapons high, ready for a downward killing strike. I am encouraging him because he didn’t notice what I did.

His mouth opens, eyes wide as his body falls before me. The thump of his body against the floor of the bedroom my signal to complete the swing of my axe across the back of his neck. There is a jolt as the iron blade strikes neck bone and then nothing. His head rolls free from his body.

I drop to my knees in time to catch Seka’s last smile, full of satisfaction. Her dying last stand, to kick out at the foot of the charging Chief Hob tripping him into a fall and placing the trespasser at my mercy. Unfortunately, his death cost Seka’s and mercy isn’t for him. Instead, I place a hand upon Seka’s head and silently wish her well in her next life.

Closing her eyes, I catch a dying murmur from the Head Hob. I step over the headless corpse of the Chief Hob and squat on my haunches in front of the Head Hob.

“You will be Head Hob.” He coughs disturbing his wounds, the resulting pain creeps across his face. Easing his eyes open, he gasps, “Fub …”

The Head Hob’s blank stare matches Seka’s and yet I feel more for the goblin than the Hob. What does that say about me? Am I succumbing to “going native” but instead of for the individual, for the entire race? Or is it more simply they are mine and the loss of even one emotionally painful? I shake my head and disturb the knife in my chest making me regret the reaction twice over.

Climbing to my feet, slow and precious I realise I must do something about the knife. A throat or lung hit would see even me laid low, which leaves blood loss as the lingering danger.

Preparing cloth from the Head Hob’s bed, I give some thought to how I would hold the bandage in place. I draw the conclusion my leather armour is almost worthless against the bronze weapons and work to untie the leather straps. I withdraw the knife, which also allows my armour to fall. I place a cloth pad over the wound and then tie off a length of cloth, over one shoulder and under the opposing armpit to hold the pad in place. The light cloth quickly darkens with blood until I dare to believe the flow slows to weeping. While recovering I think about Fub. How could he have organised this attack? Perhaps the attack was always going to happen, the valley over would have heard many stories from the fleeing Blood Suns if they permitted them sanctuary. Did they cast me as a villain or a threat greater than all others? The Head Hob’s Manor was invaded though, the boldness, overconfidence? Fub would know everything about the village, the last time the Head Hob summoned his Hobs and when we arrived, for example, and many other things. The perfect spy in many respects, they would simply need to convince him. Maybe my sending of the cooks and thwarting his plan to slowly kill off the Head Hob possibly his breaking point and he could have taken his grievance to them and pleaded his case offering his knowledge in exchange.

I eye the armour of the Chief Hob. With care, due to my wounds, I remove the bronze ring mail armour from the Chief Hob and dress in the hard-fought booty. The coat reaches down to my thighs, with arm coverage to the elbows. Fortunately, I could lay the entire coat out upon the Head Hob’s bed and from the bedside pull the armour towards my bent-over body, arms reaching inside for the sleeves first. I tie his belt, both knives sheathed around my waist which doubles to also hold the armour in place.

The manor is in shadow when I am done, a glow from the kitchen stoves the main source of light. The cook and I meet in the Front Room.

“Go back through the hole in the Storeroom, there should be a Ten Spears watching my back from the cottages across the pathway. Tell them it is now safe for them to enter the manor and again they must watch my back.”

“What of you Lord? Aren’t you going to wait for them?” she asks.

I place a hand upon her shivering shoulder. “I need to find a traitor before the coward runs too far and out of my reach.”

My hungry smile startles her, and she steps away with fright, murmuring, “Sorry Lord.”

“Never mind, now go.”

She darts away through the Kitchen, while I take down the two goblins holding up the front door. Peering out into the dusk light, silence greets me, and no shapes move about. I dash from the doorway to the nearest cottage across from the manor. I suck in a deep breath. The torture of the Head Hob simply a means to ensure he calls to his Hobs, yet I suspect Seka, with the warning due to Fub’s strange coming and goings, convinced the Head Hob to call earlier, perhaps half a day. In time to warn me and if the Smith Hob did what he did last time, sacrificing goblins for haste he would have been down the cliff face as the invading goblins were still busy bringing the wall of the warehouse down and therefore stand a fighting chance instead of slaughter. From Zoria’s life story the valley over supported a Ranger Hob, slain by myself what seems so long ago now, a Chief Hob, now slain and an Armour Hob, which I am yet to see, and I would think if willing to fight, more melee than ranged. With that assurance, I push myself away from the cottage and dash northeast to the next cottage. The pathway south leads towards the new wall and eventually to the river ford. I suspect the invaders to at least watch, if not cover both locations with archers.

An arrow striking my shoulder rocks me, I stumble back from the force. The arrowhead and broken links of ring mail stab into my flesh, the new wound adjacent to the Chief Hobs’ knife wound although further away from my lungs and more under the collar bone. I slump to the ground, my back sliding down the side of the cottage. Given the force behind the arrow and the required pull strength on the bow, this can only mean my attacker is a Hob.

“We meet again Farmer Hob, show yourself and we can end this quickly to avoid you suffering any more pain.”

The snide voice familiar, the Hunter Hob. The mystery of his disappearance now solved; he heard the call of the Chief Hob. Perhaps my doing when I slew the Ranger Hob?

“Well, can’t say that I can,” I reply. “Besting the Chief Hob took much effort to be sure, but I have a deal!”

Laughter. “I am listening,” he retorts.

“Hand over Fub now so I can enjoy strangling him for his betrayal and perhaps against my better judgement we will continue our game tonight instead of when I am healed and full of vengeance.”

“Fub isn’t mine to give or not give, so therefore we must continue …”

He is on the move, the directional source of his voice and clarity changing between replies. Only the Hob’s manor would have a roof strong enough to support a Hob, the sloping rooves of thatch on the cottage’s incapable, which means he lurks about on the ground either between or inside. His voice wasn’t muffled in any way, so he isn’t inside any cottages. I bash down the door and scramble inside the cottage, an arrow embeds in the loose stone pathway where I previously slumped.

“Not fair, what gave me away Farmer Hob?”

I have no immediate reply. The shaft of the arrow in my chest broke off during my scramble and I grit my teeth to stifle the scream of pain I desperately need to release. Feeling for the end of the arrow shaft I touch upon a spread of short splinters. Below the splinters remains a finger length of the original arrow shaft, wet to touch, I suspect blood oozes out coating the ring mail around the wound.

Water. The river around the village must be my next objective, to the East and well away from the ford and the new wall. This should also be a surprise to the Hunter Hob as anyone sane would try to return to help. They can’t help me though, no matter their earnest efforts and deep concern. For me, the opposite direction holds my salvation. I make my way to the back of the cottage and peering into the murk of dusk, with relief note there isn’t a garden. I ease the door open and once wide enough, sprint through and welcome the firm ground underfoot and when the dark shape of a fence looms up, I launch myself over. Thankfully my wounded upper thigh doesn’t protest, all credit goes to my busy nanorobots and exposure to water will ensure my other wounds recovery also. I land intending to stride out and instead my leading right foot sinks to below the knee, my left foot I try to ease up on the landing and succeed somewhat as only my ankle sinks into the well-turned fallow cottage garden. I curse, too loudly.

Footsteps ring in my ears, Hob heavy due to his haste, my curse alerting him. The Hunter Hob may not have expected me to run this way, but he certainly didn’t dismiss the possibility outright. Both of my hands hold the spear shaft out front of me as I lean forward and lift my left foot free and onto the firmer ground between the rows. With this as a platform I pull my right leg up, the soil slowly surrendering and granting me hope.

“Well, what a fine mess you have gotten yourself into Farmer Hob. Somewhat fitting that your final breath will be drawn while knee-deep in mud." He smirks. "Matches your slow mind, unable to figure out that a Hunter Hob doesn't belong under a Head Hob, so you misjudged my skills, my purpose, thinking me useless and a layabout, I am sure."

His triumphant grin and finishing snicker burn my ego, yet I endure.

"Your convenient slaying of the Ranger Hob enabled the right order of things to return and now, thanks to you I will ascend to Chief Hob, even the inconvenience of the Armour Hob was solved by one of your goblins. Amazing archery, even by my standards, an arrow through the eye from over one hundred paces, Hobgoblin paces in fact. The goblin tribe protecting the Armour Hob sought payback of course but ran into an ambush south of the river. This could mean your archer stills lives and if so, will provide me with much sport.”

Vuzsia could have pulled off such a feat and she would have led the Ten Spears with her south of the river to avoid the ambush at the ford. My right leg is almost free. I did consider chatting to him to distract and buy more time, but it seems he needed to unburden himself so why should I interrupt.

“I know I talk too much when I am happy, but I am not ignorant of your progress. Therefore, our meeting is at an end.”

I hear the strain on his bow as he draws back. I refuse to look, almost free, and then I must roll, dive, jump anything to change my position between the twang of his release and the arrow striking …