We swing north, returning to the town crossroad and then head east.

“On one side is the rented stone house is Clan Hungry and on the opposite is our next destination. Clan Quickeyed,” says Thalgora in a matter-of-fact tone.

“The merchants,” I offer.

She pecks at my lips. “A reward for the student, my husband.”

Approaching our destination, we observe a guard on his haunches in the doorway playing dice with another. Only when the shadow of Lord Torngul’s boar falls across their game do they break their concentration and with looks of disdain slowly crane their heads ever upwards and open their mouths wide. Fortunately, perhaps, their eyes stall whatever words of dissatisfaction they intended to utter, and they bounce to their feet instead, grabbing for their sword belts trying to retie them about their waists.

Lord Torngul slides from his mount, and steps through, knocking each guard against a door jamb causing them to fumble their sword belts. As we follow Lord Torngul, each of us makes the effort to disturb their recovery. Being last through, Zoria adds insult to their injury by closing the front door. Then we hear the crossbar slide down.

The antechamber is empty, with a single door leading further inside the house, very similar to the other house which we just left.

“Stay in your cloaks until we find out what is going on here,” says Lord Torngul. He waves a left hand at Voria and points at the door. Then a right hand at Trela. Voria levers the handle and with a nod opens the door to allow Trela to storm in.

“I announce the arrival of Lord Torngul, be at peace,” she thunders.

Hand on her sword hilt, Voria marches in to join Trela. Shortly after Lord Torngul saunters in, shoulders back, hands on his hips. I step forward to follow and an arm sweeps out across my chest.

“Hold husband, Lord Torngul needs to sort out the lax reception first.”

“Lord Torngul… I apologise for this lapse in hospitality – I beg your forgiveness.”

We wait in silence while hearing the occasional scrapping of heavy boots. Pacing? Without any other option, we eavesdrop through the open door yet remain out of the direct line of sight.

“I expect to find Clan Head Krilzak in this house, but I am somewhat bemused by your presence here Clan Head Zinmog. You have enough challenges growing food to feed this valley, I didn’t think you could spare any for the merchants to sell on your behalf.”

Silence.

Another voice, gruff and bold speaks up, “Lord it is not like that, we erm, we of Clan Hungry are looking to import, contract an import with Clan Quickeyed.”

“Yes,” replies Lord Torngul, he draws the single word out.

“Surely Lord Torngul a transaction between one Clan and another is private to them…” says, I am certain, Clan Head Krilzak.

“Normally yes, although your guards are lax, your hospitably less than welcome and now I observe a room full of sulking, downcast faces. What am I to think? I depend upon the Clans to preserve themselves according to certain norms. So far both Clans before me are acting like secretive organisations of ill repute, unworthy of their charter.”

“Tell him, tell our Lord Torngul,” growls Clan Head Krilzak.

A clearing of the throat signals his confession. “We are contracting Clan Quickeyed to fetch several out of valley males, with a view to testing each to determine if any are more inclined than the other to beget male offspring.”

I listen to his words and replay them in my mind. This doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t the Clans intermarry or the like?

Thalgora whispers in my ear, “They are a desperate Clan, their crops hardly yield an excess of grain for them to sell in Hobgoblin Town, which means they have no way to purchase all the things they need. The rumour is their Clan is about to collapse. Male offspring will not help them, but they do think differently than most. They grow crops and their name is Clan Hungry. Wouldn’t you name yourself Clan Bountiful or Plenty?” She shrugs.

“Lord Klar, enter.”

I hear my name, yet it takes Thalgora nudging me aware before I enter the room. Alone. The first thing I notice is the number of hobgoblins present, mainly female like always, yet a significant number of males, mostly elderly I might add, yet the two Clan Heads while not youths, would be the youngest males present.

“Clan Head Zinmog, I have a proposal for you. Lord Klar will sow your females as well as advise you on the best way to turn your unproductive sham of a farm into something resembling a proper enterprise. What say you?”

I gulp. What of Thalgora? Won’t she be somewhat angry with this arrangement? I don’t hear her scream in protest or the more subtle, objection, the breaking of any furniture… What of me? What is Zeb Stone Grim planning by farming out my seed?

“Lord Torngul, you are most generous, but no offence, he is a youth. There are no well-earnt lines of wisdom and experience upon his face. The learned elders around us have arrived at what could save Clan Hungry and…”

The stomping of Lord Torngul’s boot intrudes upon his whining prattle.

“You may wonder why I have taken him under my protection, married him into my family. I will tell you why.” His gaze transfixes each of the Clan Heads in turn until their eyes look down. “Linage! He is the youngest of four brothers. His line has no daughters.”

Zeb Stone Grim allows several moments for his fantastic unbelievable lies to sink in while I gulp. I flick my eyes towards the door … is Thalgora going to charge in and protest the use of her husband in this way?

“I will guarantee his services, including the increase in crop yield if you obey his every instruction. Any dissent and this guarantee will be cancelled. He is a master at sowing seed.”

I must admire the double meaning, yet again where is Thalgora? The two Clan Heads exchange glances. They have the pressure of their Lord, the impossible guarantee added to the mix and all they must do is accept a hobgoblin youth can, in the face of hundreds of years of proof go against the established status quo of plentiful female and few male births.

Clan Head Krilzak steps back and settles into, what I assume is his chair. The high back is a dead giveaway. “I don’t see how you can lose Zinmog? After all your payment to me was always going to be a risk and Clan Quickeyed would not be comfortable taking over your farm for failure to settle for services provided.”

That revelation stuns me. No others though, not even Voria and Trela, or they simply don’t care. Lord Torngul had a suspicion, somehow and I need to find out how. Those in the room share quiet words, waiting. The pressure on Zinmog must be enormous and as I examine the room, I discover something obvious once seen. The merchants must have profits to burn judging by the fine clothes and shoes on display. The Clan Head is a prime example, clothes of silk or similar refinement, shoes of expert crafting, not boots. His ensemble of fashion is one of many examples. These all stand in contrast to the tidy, yet functional farm clothing of Clan Hungry. Clan Greenfriend, judging by the guards and the servant would be classified as comfortable at a guess. The guards at the door of Clan Quickeyed, were well dressed, yet as guards, unprofessional. Both Clans are broken in different ways in my opinion.

Zinmog squeaks out a reply, which I suspect only goblin ears would be capable of hearing.

“Speak up Zinmog, with conviction. Say it like you accept it and be done,” growls Lord Torngul.

“We agree,” he declares loud enough for all to hear.

“Good. Clan Head Krilzak I will need a room, doesn’t have to be large, preferably one door only.” Lord Torngul sticks his thumbs in his sword belt and rocks back on his heels waiting.

I am as lost as Clan Head Krilzak, he is trying to understand why, and I am trying to predict what is going to happen next. Eventually one of his Clan whispers in his ear. I have no such confidant.

“There is a small room off this room. A place for long stays, luggage and other things can be stored there. It is empty my servants tell me.”

“Good. Zoria, enter and attend to your Lord,” commands Torngul.

Zoria enters, glances about, and stands behind me, right-hand side.

As we wait the door to the room is flung open and true to their word, empty.

Lord Torngul scratches his chin. “Add a bed, yes he will need a bed at the very least.”

A bed? Is the seeding going to happen now? Am I to be some performing creature? What would drive Zeb Stone Grim to this action without discussion or warning? Is he warming to his role and thinks he is immune from my wrath? A quiet doom descends upon the room while we wait. The scrapes and bumps as servants carry the bed into the room are the sole destroyer of this silence. Scanning their faces, all the witnesses are in deep thought trying to comprehend the wishes of their Lord. I have no such confusion, mine is one of disbelief. Once the servants finish and leave occasional muttering becomes the norm as all wait for Lord Torngul’s insanity to play out. More than once I share a questioning glance with him and he returns nothing.

He marches forward, Voria and Trela follow, Zoria and I follow them and those in the way scatter.

“Inside Lord Klar.” He waves towards the doorway. With caution I step forward until I have no choice and cross the threshold of the door, immediately swivelling about to face the crowd.

“Stand guard Zoria. See that no harm befalls your Lord on your life.”

Lord Torngul turns about. The crowd leans forward, eager for answers and I know they will hang on his every word. Not only is he their Lord, but also the conductor of this unusual circumstance and therefore able to satisfy their curiosity.

“Clan Head Zinmog, your first female hobgoblin please.”

His face drains of colour. “Lord these are my servants, yet they are mostly the wives of others in my Clan. I must ask what you intend to do with them.”

I admire his bravery, in questioning his Lord. His Clan may be trash but the duty of a Clan Head runs deep within him.

“Are they with child?”

He shakes his head slowly, frowning. He answers yet he wonders about the consequence.

“So, their husbands fail them? Select one,” growls Torngul. I think the fun in the game has finally gone for him or he is now playing a different Zeb Stone Grim game.

“No need,” says a feminine voice. “I will volunteer, I am one of the few of Clan Hungry present, currently without a husband.”

“No!” shouts Zinmog grabbing her by the shoulders as she advances toward Lord Torngul.

“I am certain the Lord has a masterful plan for our Clan father, and I will be the first and therefore lead by example as expected of a Clan Head’s daughter.”

He releases her, his hands grabbing for his head. If hobgoblins had hair, I am certain he would be pulling on it as well. I thought I was the lamb to some sort of slaughter, yet she is in Lord Torngul’s power as much as I am now, we all are. Zeb Stone Grim gives nothing away in his facial expression. Grim and neutral.

He grabs her shoulders, bending down slightly to do so and to look into her eyes. He then reaches forward to whisper in her ears. He straightens and releases her. She wipes a tear from her eye, nods and then marches toward me with a look of determination on her face. I stare as she pushes past me and into the room. She tests the bed for bounce and then casts a look in my direction.

“Get to work Lord Klar,” says Lord Torngul over his shoulder. Zoria places a lantern in the room and then closes the door and when the bar falls into place, it is like an announcement of certain doom.

“What did Lord Torngul whisper to you?” I ask.

“If I don’t go into the room after volunteering, he would revoke Clan Hungry’s charter.”

“That is...”

She holds up a hand. “Once you are done with me, I would beg to stay with you as he guarantees I will be with child, a male child.”

---

I lost count of the number of females I serviced. My inner Hob ignited my breeding lust, and I released my will to him to excuse myself of any guilt. That was my theory of course. There was enough of my awareness remaining to note that while all the females dressed in similar clothes, they weren’t all from Clan Hungry. Their females to a one had rough skin and ill-kept fingernails, while others I serviced were the complete opposite, with manicured fingernails, and soft skin. I suspect Clan Quickeyed procured some Clan Hungry smocks and added their females to my labour.

Zeb Stone Grim knew what needed to be done during and afterwards. Zoria fed me a complete side of boar and several water skins of water. I read a sense of sadness in her eyes; she knew Zeb’s manipulation of the situation was a game to him. His belief in this reality is tenuous, therefore unafraid of consequences. She also knew how it felt to be used, repeatedly. Lord Torngul’s word came back to me, work, and that is what he did to me. I became a machine. I should be the one toying with Zeb Stone Grim yet on this occasion he decided to make a point. In this valley, real or not, he was the ultimate authority, and he would be having some fun with his growing appreciation of absolute power.

Afterwards, Zoria washed me down, yet the stink of sex in the room did limit her success. I refused to dress in the leather clothes and armour I arrived in, Zoria again providing, fetching a simple linen shirt and long pants. A pair of sandals was added late. I swung a sack over my shoulder containing what I wore when I walked in and then nodded to Zoria to open the door.

Taking my first step over the threshold spontaneous applause greets me and follows me to the anteroom and then into the morning sun of the next day. I blink my eyes. No boar mount awaits to speed our return.

“Lord Hob, we should return to the Manor,” Zoria whispers.

I nod. “Walk beside me, I don’t feel so superior this morning.”

She wraps her arm around my free one and as a couple, we walk towards the Manor, which isn’t far away in distance, yet is now distant. Is Zeb going to continue to test the boundaries or was yesterday an aberration, a simple once-off amusing happenstance?

---

The steaming water of the bath reaches into my aching muscles. I am managing my recovery with Zoria and Luda feeding and watering me while I wallow.

“Zoria told me, Lord Hob. I apologise on behalf of my father. I know his behaviour was odd and I can only hope this is a once-off,” whispers Luda, with tears running down her face.

I ruffle her hair. “I would feel somewhat better if I knew for certain his offering of me was a means to an end and not whimsy.”

The back of Zoria’s hand caresses my cheek. “The plan of him showing you off as his new right hand and tamer of his daughter is now somewhat a nothing compared to the legend of your sexual prowess.”

“How is Thalgora? I expected her to erupt once she knew of her father’s plan for me.”

“She has kept away Lord, Izga keeps her company trying to ensure she doesn’t do or say anything against her father. She assures her you will recover and be as strong as ever, especially if she is by your side,” says Luda.

A huge shout sounds outside the room’s window attracting our attention.

“The early rounds of the Tournament,” offers Zoria. “Since this is Lord Torngul’s Tournament and only he can declare the winner, he must be present. Then afterwards at dusk, he spends time amongst his adoring subjects.”

“How many days have I been asleep?”

A warm wet washer slides over my bald head. “The short story is we stumbled back into the Manor, and I took you for a bath. Then to your room. Luda kept an eye on you while I scoured the Manor for food. Then between us, we fed you until you protested, needing no more. That was yesterday before the middle of the day, now dusk approaches. In between while you were sleeping, I told Luda what I knew of your ordeal. We both think it unwise to tell Duzsia and Zergoa, although Thalgora and Izga may have already, for all we know,” finishes Zoria.

“We should probably prepare for a quick getaway, just in case Zeb’s mind unravels any further.”

I hear a sniff and turn to see tears once again rolling down Luda’s face. I reach out my arm and cup her cheek with my hand. “He isn’t the father you knew. The High Priestess still has a deep and everlasting hold on him it seems, and we can’t do anything to help him.”

“I know. It still hurts though when you make plans because of him, not with him.”

A hue and cry, the stomping of many boots echo throughout the Manor. Next, Trela bursts through the bedroom door. She shakes her head for a moment and then dismisses her confusion remembering I guess why she is before me.

“Come. Come right now, Lord Torngul commands you!” she yells, dark angry green sits under her eyes while she tugs at my arm.

I stare at her. She is distraught. I assume Lord Torngul will be also and she is his messenger. I tilt my head.

“Voria is near death. Lord Torngul says you can save her, please I beg you, tend to her for me…”

She knew and stood by while Lord Torngul played out his fun idea, she would know I would be reluctant… I wait to see if there is an improved offer.

She tugs at my arm trying to drag me out of the bath. “Bastard! I will owe you, a favour, collect it at any time in the future, now come!” Tears roll down her cheeks, her hands attempt to cover her face as she bends over in pain, emotional pain I suspect. Stepping out of the bath Zoria and Luda wrap a simple long linen cloth coat about me and then I drag Trela to her feet.

“Lead.”

She blinks and then sprints out the door and down the hallway, racing for the wide marble stairs and I am on her booted heels, my bare feet slapping down behind her. We arrive on the ground floor and burst through the open door to the kitchen. On the preparation table lays Voria, the cloth Lord Torngul holds on her neck black with blood and dripping. The neck artery.

“Save her,” he pleads with a face now flush with dark green, his eyes puffy and moist. He seems to care for this particular illusion in his false game.

“This is but a game is it not? The High Priestess teasing you, messing with your plans, trapping you into mistakes, this is all one big elaborate ruse. What care you for one of its players?”

“What is he saying,” screams Trela. “He isn’t making sense, the High Priestess of Klug and her sycophants have never ventured this far south, never stepped foot in this valley. Forget all that, save Voria. Lord Torngul says you can, now do it.”

Zeb Stone grim releases his grip upon the cloth and heavy with blood, it slides from Voria’s neck and onto the floor with a splat. The nick on her artery is tiny, yet a steady pulse of black blood leaks from the wound. Trela stares at Lord Torngul for a moment and then using a fresh cloth staunches the bleeding once again. Lord Torngul sits on the floor his knees up, his bloody arms resting upon them while he hides his face between his legs.

I slice the palm of my hand and drip blood into Voria’s open mouth. Her breathing is ragged and a sheen of sweat gathers on her face. Body shock? I squeeze and pump my fist to hasten the flow of my blood although I can’t flood her mouth as I am relying on her instinctive swallowing reflex.

“Remove the cloth, I will place my hand on the wound.”

Trela stares at me, shaking her head from side to side trying to make sense of my words.

“Do you want me to try and save her?”

She numbly nods. I need her to remove the cloth, more importantly, I need to ensure she doesn’t fight me. Any tearing of the wound would mean greater blood loss and I would doubt my chances if that happened.

“Remove the cloth,” I say in a gentle and soft tone, even though I want to scream at her.

Slowly she removes the cloth and cups it between her hands. They come to rest upon her chest as she stares and tears anew.

My bloody hand cups the wound and I can feel the weak pulse of the artery.

Gloomy darkness bathes the kitchen and I sense more than see Trela, while under my hand Voria’s pulse grows stronger.

“Trela, find another lantern or more candles, I need more light to check Voria’s wound. We will also need water, as much as you can find.”

“She’s alive?” Her voice is high with wonder.

“Fetch light and water and she may stay that way, now hurry.”

She kicks something but eventually, with cursing finds the kitchen exit.

---

Whatever the source of feeble light previously, is now gone. The cloak of night covers us.

“You are not what you seem,” croaks Voria.

“Be quiet you still aren’t far from death.”

“You are wrong, I will not die now. Your blood burns through me, multiplying, and devouring my feeble blood to do so…”

“You stupid woman, my blood is killing you now, we need water. What is taking Trela so long?”

Light splashes through the kitchen doorway, growing stronger. At last!

In the doorway, as I look up to check, I don’t find Trela. Instead, my wife Thalgora stands there, lantern in one hand and waterskin in the other. As she closes the distance between us, I reach out for the waterskin.

“Why do you save one of my father’s sluts after what he did to you?”

“She is not to blame for his actions. She could no more interfere with his design as anyone else who was present.” I lower my voice and soften the tone. “Not even you Thalgora my wife. Not even you.”

“I wished to!” she shouts. “You are my husband and I failed you like I failed my …” She throws the waterskin at me and runs off leaving Voria and I in the dark once again. I place the waterskin beside her head and feel for her lips, dragging the waterskin to them. Gently I squeeze the waterskin to force water into her mouth. Half is probably lost, but half is better than none. She coughs occasionally but no more. Where is everybody, I ask myself? If only I could see in the dark… I concentrate on the outcome and connect with my nanorobots to motivate them to do my bidding. In the meantime, slinging the empty waterskin over my shoulder, I lift Voria off the table and princess carry her while taking careful step after careful step to manoeuvre my way out of the kitchen.

Using the low light available from almost spent hallway candles I head upstairs to the only water I know, my bath. On my way, I encounter no one, the Manor looks to be deserted. I push the door to my room open with my foot. My room is as deserted as the Manor. I lower Voria to the floor and by feel, strip off her armour and then her leathers, leaving her breast wrap and loincloth in place. I pick her up and lower her gently into my now lukewarm bathwater.

I peer into the shadows of my room and confirm Luda and Zoria are not here, not sleeping on the bed or laying on the floor. I hold Voria’s head clear of the water by nestling my hand under her chin, after a while I catch myself nodding off for tiny periods of sleep.

Pressure upon my lips wakes me and blinking my eyes, I discover Voria’s face, bemused expression and all staring back at me. The light of the false dawn invades my room confirming she still has her modesty in tack, wearing a breast wrap and loincloth.

“If you want to use my body, I am willing to surrender myself to you.” She flicks a knot somewhere and her breast wrap with slightly more encouragement falls away. “I owe you my life, so the least I can offer is my body especially since after your healing I feel amazing!” Her loincloth disappears faster than her breast wrap and next she straddles me, finding what she is after. Apparently, my linen cloth long coat was never tied off or perhaps she untied the ties before she kissed me awake.

My inner Hob blinds me to the present, perhaps a hang-over from the events two days ago? Maybe three? I have lost count. Her voice returns me to the present.

“Your seed is even more potent than your blood, and the pleasure involved in the extraction a definite plus,” she purrs as she climbs off me. The rising sunlight through the bedroom window frames her magnificent athletic body, a fine sculpture in dark green. She bends down and plucks her clothes from the floor tying them off one after the other. Then her leathers and finally her armour and I stare my way through the entire exhibition. She kneels beside me.

“Be a good boy and tie off my breastplate please.”

I draw the leather cord tight and knot the ends.

“I couldn’t understand Zergoa’s remarkable improvement, not so much in skill, more in endurance and speed and now I know the reason …” She flicks my chin with a finger. “And the source …” She licks her lips, her tongue caressing a tusk in the process.

I stare into her eyes and do nothing else. Hasn’t she just betrayed her Lord for personal gain? Or did near-death recalibrate her view of things – get stronger no matter the cost, even sacrificing honour and oaths.

She jumps to her feet. “I need to find my sword… and Trela, I am certain I worried her, and I can’t forget Lord Torngul of course. Umm, you should probably get dressed as I think we will be visiting more Clans today.”

With that said she abandons me, her saviour, the one who brought her back from the brink of death. I shake my head, drag my bag of clothes and armour out of a corner, I or someone else left it in and start dressing. I am just about done when Trela races into the room.

“Yes?”

“Where is Voria?” she asks.

Stomping my foot into a boot, I have my own question. “Why didn’t you return with water?”

“I did, well I asked Thalgora to, Torngul went quiet, still is quiet. He rocks back and forth on his bottom, hands around his knees in his room. We think he dismissed all the Manor’s staff last night during his grief over Voria’s death. But you saved her, didn’t you?” A touch of worry reaches her voice.

“Yes, she paid me back and then left.”

“Paid you back?” Her head leans to one side.

“Had her way with me, took my seed inside her, that sort of thing.”

Trela’s hand covers her mouth.

“Considering what Lord Torngul put me through several days ago I am certain one lay with his honour guard won’t bother him. It certainly didn’t bother Voria while she took me when helpless.”

“She wouldn’t, we are sworn to Lord Torngul… why?”

I shrug. “Perhaps to show her gratitude to me for saving her life, although I didn’t ask for any reward from her.” I take one step towards Trela. She retreats.

“I said one favour, but not that. We are, I am sworn to Lord Torngul.” She glances about the room. “Where are your wives?”

“Maybe you can tell me?”