---Lord Klar POV

“Lord, we apologise for disturbing you, but the village needs protection. Normally, we could scare them off by assembling our warriors, but you have dealt them some grievous injuries, and now the few fit enough are currently being laughed at. Our enemies are demanding tribute.”

“Show me your enemies,” I growl while my inner Hob celebrates.

They lead me to the assembly point, and the number of goblins and hobgoblins is half what I faced that first night. In the distance, on a wolf, is an immense goblin. Flanking him on foot are two hobgoblins who tower over the goblin, even while he sits astride his mount.

“Fetch my red axe,” I ask no one in particular, yet after several heartbeats, the axe is in my hand, and I am storming towards the trio, holding my village to ransom.

The goblin smiles and licks his lips. “Are you the village champion?” he shouts with confidence as he shuffles his arse while astride his wolf mount.

I continue advancing in silence. Behind these three are primarily female hobgoblins holding the centre. Each flank contains mostly male goblin archers. They exchange nervous glances. With every step forward, the hobgoblins know their windows of opportunity to charge and intercept my rapid advance diminish. I reached the point of no return shortly after. The angle is now too narrow to permit the archers to release arrows, and be sure none will strike the wolf rider instead of me.

He glances left and then right. He swallows while dropping his smile. I am confident he now realises his overconfidence has positioned him too far forward. He hisses with desperate anger at what I assume are his bodyguards.

They advance towards me and swing their swords in unison, one high and one low. I block high with my axe and dart beside the holder so his companion’s sword swings through the vacant air. Even at a disadvantage, my strength overpowers his to twist the block. He manages a grunt as he accepts his fate. I sweep his sword away. My axe, now free, shears through his neck. As his head falls from his shoulders, his partner hesitates in shock. A moment is all I need, and my backswing takes his head off his shoulders as well. I observe the graceful arc of the head sailing away to my left.

Dull clubbing alerts me. The goblin kicks furiously with his heels into the wolf’s flanks, trying to turn him about. In response, I grab a sword from one of his bodyguards and fling the weapon at him. End over end, it flies. When I think the hilt will hit fair square in his back, his wolf leaps forward, permitting the sword to complete a final arc and bury itself through his back, stopping at the hilt. I assume the tip bursts out of his chest. The wolf sniffs over his shoulder and whines.

As I approach the gathered troops, I growl at the wolf, which drops to the ground.

“Who is in charge here?”

They look at the goblin rider, hoping, I guess beyond hope, that he somehow still lives. Then, they chat and eventually decide on a male hobgoblin. He is skinny for a hobgoblin but tall as one should be. I shake my head.

“Take me to your crone.”

They suck in a collective breath. None object though, and like a shepherd, I herd my goblin and hobgoblin sheep before me until around the middle of the day, we enter what I assume is their village. One of the goblin archers hurries off ahead, and shortly after, a black-robed, I guess female crone shuffles towards me.

“Where is he?”

The goblin archer who fetched her leans over and whispers in her ear. Before he finishes, she glares at me while her hands tremble slightly while holding her staff. Something my village crone doesn’t have, I note.

“What tribute do you demand?”

I rest my axe, dried black blood still on its head, on my shoulder and answer, “Your loyalty. Swear an oath to me, and I will let you live.”

My sheep, who stood off on each side of me, now swarm into the gap between the crone and me while hefting their weapons. I bend down and pick up a rock. Before any can blink, I throw it at the tall, skinny hobgoblin. His eyelids flutter, and then his body falls back like a tree hewed clean through at the base. They glance at him and then reappraise me.

A narrow, clear passage remains, and I call her to me. I see her calculating the odds. Indeed, she thinks, he can’t defeat us all, the entire village, if need be. Then her eyes go wide. I toss a rock in my hand while I lock my eyes on hers. She gets the message. In any attack on me, she will be the first to fall. She lifts her robes and scrambles forward with haste.

“Well, met crone, I am Lord Klar. Now swear your oath of loyalty to me.”

“I swear to serve Lord Klar faithfully and fully until the end of my days.” She bows and then straightens. With one hand, I grab her by the neck and drag her to me. Her feet flail in panic.

“I swear to protect you while you remain loyal to me.” I slash my wrist on one of my tusks. Her eyes open wide in shock and stay open as I drip my blood into her mouth. As I return her to her feet, she licks her lips. My bleeding arm hangs beside my body. Without hesitation, she rushes forward and sucks up every drop she can until I flick my wrist and detach her. “Enough.”

“Yes, Lord. I reach for too much. Please don’t punish your loyal servant.”

“Ensure all in this village swear their loyalty to me. None hide or otherwise run off.”

“Yes, Lord.” She scampers away and sends a few goblin archers running in all directions while the rest of the village troop pushes towards me. By late afternoon, we are done. I rise from the wood stump I have been sitting on while accepting their oaths and stretch with satisfaction. The three empty water-skins I leave for another to take care of.

“Lord?” asks the crone.

“I must return.”

She looks around, and the villagers gather around her. “We have sent a messenger, Lord, that you will stay to feast with us tonight.”

“Are you telling me what I can and can’t do and when?”

She throws herself at my feet. “No, Lord. We thought, we thought, to enjoy your company. We beg your forgiveness if we thought wrong. Punish me, Lord. I am the crone of the village. Only I must bear the burden of our poor decisions.”

My fingers wrap around her throat; they play, a light squeeze. She swallows and shudders. With her dangling in my grip, we retire to her hut. I can stand inside, and the one-room abode is large enough to swing a goblin in. Instead of swinging her, I lower her onto her bedroll.

“Remove your ceremonial robes. I would like to see the face of my loyal crone.”

“Yes, Lord.” She drops the main robe, a bulky woollen garment that wraps around her several times. Beneath, she wears a linen top and skirt. Leather slip-on-type shoes cover her feet. She flicks back a cowl-type cap, a secondary covering to ensure her face is in shadow. My crone in this village is young and shapely.

“Do I please you, Lord?” Her eyes look down, which is as it should be. My inner Hob is urging me on, and I step forward.

There is a commotion, including shouting and counter-shouting. She bites her lip. “I must dress. Lord, there is something amiss.” I wave my hand. In quick time, she dresses herself and hurries outside. I make myself at home, swing a gourd of water and lay back on her bedroll, my boots way past the end. No sooner am I relaxed than two crones disturb my peace—one from each village.

“You see, as I said, Lord Klar is staying in our village for the night.”

The other stares at me, sulking. “Is this true, Lord? After you defended us, we thought you would return, and we would celebrate your triumph.”

I wave them both forward. Any former reluctance is long gone, as they bustle and shove to be as close to me as possible without touching me.

Using a hand on each, I disrobe them. They flush green in unison. Their flush grows more profound as I loosen fastenings and cause more of their clothes to slip from their bodies. Both of my crones are of similar age. Both are shapely and pleasant of face, now naked and their eyes downcast.

“Do you wish to have a child?”

They share a glance. “Yes, Lord,” they whisper.

“Do you wish for a goblin or hobgoblin child?”

I hear them both suck in a breath and then snap their heads up so they can check I haven’t turned into some horror and look at their feet again. “Female hobgoblin, Lord,” they answer, this time one after another.

“Do you know how to survive a hobgoblin child birthing?”

“Yes, Lord, we crones follow the teachings of Luda Reborn, the Daughter of Luda, the Deep Delver, the survivor of the Dark.”

Could this be true? It must be true. Why would they need to lie?

“Lord? Have we said something that offends you?” Their trembling hands reach across and find each other. “We will always be loyal to you, Lord, but we can’t forsake our sacred teachings. Our village survives or fails by the growing ways. Our hobgoblin birthing ritual ensures the mother and baby lives. We care for our animals and keep bees using the revered methods.” Because of my silence, they think I am angry. They drop to their knees, sobbing.

“You don’t need to be untrue to your teachings. In fact, I forbid you to. Hold on to them as you would your own lives.” They both rush me, leaping and throwing their arms around my neck, forgetting themselves. When my hands caress their backs, they realise their folly and try to untangle themselves.

“You realise your fault then, my crones.”

They sob while nodding their heads slowly. I punish them both with pleasure. Several times each until daybreak. Their moaning and pleading for more shameless. After a brief sleep, they take great pains to prance naked in front of me while washing themselves down. I know they can’t dally forever as they have responsibilities. After their quick test of temptation and no move from me, they reluctantly dress in their respective robes.

“I will need some rest today.” I stretch and rub my eyes. “You seem to have worn me out.” They giggle behind their hands. “Wake me for lunch.” I roll over and pretend to fall immediately to sleep. As they leave the hut, a hum of conversation breaks out around them, questions and more questions. All this gradually fades, and I welcome the silence—Luda’s daughter. No one knew what became of her. She led her people into the mountain and apparently through. Given I have seen the mountains from above, how many years of digging would that have taken? How did they survive? What did they eat? Drink?

“Lord?”

A female hobgoblin. I remember her face; she held the centre of the battle line for my first village, I think. “Yes?”

“Would you lay with me and grow a male hobgoblin in my belly? Lord?”

“What about your husband?”

“He was a goblin you slew with a log, Lord. A goblin.” The disgust in her voice is plain. “We were only betrothed but not yet married.”

I wave her in. She slips inside the hut and takes the time to knot the ties on the cured hide door. “Given I slew your potential husband, it seems you are due compensation.”

This continues throughout the day. It seems I slew many more than I thought I did, given the number of widows I serviced. My crones didn’t return at lunchtime, but others fed me. I suspect many false emergencies occupied them. Their moaning the night before encouraged this conspiracy. I am certain curiosity, and the fear of missing out were the primary drivers of this farce.

By the end of the day, I looked for the crones and laid down what I wanted. Over the next ten days, all the potential females of childbearing age from both villages I fertilised with my seed. On the eleventh day, I needed to slay my first jealous husband. On the twelfth, I left both villages and continued my travels. My only regret? In my haste, I left my axe behind.

After two days of travelling day and night, I discovered a third village, this one substantially more significant because cultivated fields started a long way out from the village proper. If I kept to myself, the farming goblins would watch me, but, in the end, they decided I was neither friendly nor unfriendly. Any potential trouble would simply pass by with me. Oddly, they didn’t think much about where I came from because if they did, I am sure they would have raised an alarm.

I spotted enough male hobgoblins to ensure I wasn’t unique, which was a relief. What I didn’t count on was that the male hobgoblins invariably kept constant company with at least three and occasionally with five or six female hobgoblins. I am confident at some point, my unaccompanied presence would be gossip, and I, too, would gain female company.

----

A thumping on the Inn’s door to my room wakes me. I flick my eyes open, and a faint shimmer of light tries to frame the ill-fitting window shutter across from my flee-riddled bed.

“Coming.”

They allow me time to dress and open the door. Four female hobgoblins, swords and shields at the ready, greet me. Two bees chasing each other head to tail in the circle decorate their shields. Luda influence?

I shrug as they escort me past the Innkeeper. She expected me to stay longer, I am sure.

My escort doesn’t lay a hand on me, and I suspect they believe I am a docile, helpless hobgoblin as they point out obstacles, like missing or proud cobblestones, warning of the next street we need to turn into—more like tour guides. A large central stone building, three or four floors, dominates the settlement. I decide this is a town, not a large village, a coastal town. The fresh morning breeze carries the smell of brine.

Many opening their shops for the day note my passing or my escort or both, as do many passing by, some stopping and staring. After a short while, the growing number of female hobgoblins and their chatter grow. They follow us through many winding streets until we reach the large stone building. Two large open gates lead into a vast open courtyard. Female guards stand stiff and at attention at regular intervals until directly in front, lounging in a throne-like chair larger than her, is a Luda lookalike. Not a goblin, but if she was reborn as a hobgoblin. A crone whispers in one ear while a soldier-type whispers in the other.

When the guards halt, so do I, the whispering as well.

With sensual languishing effort, she pushes herself free of her throne. Her clothes blend woollens, cotton, and fur trimmings—the occasional run of gems and pearls for decoration. Two large yellow stones hang as earrings: her plain gold crown, the singular oddity in an otherwise deliberate display of wealth and craftsmanship.

After circling me twice, and I need to withhold my curiosity and not swivel my head or shift my body to inspect her, she returns to her throne. She is silent, and given I can’t spy on her, I have ample opportunity to assess those females who followed us. They are now happier, their eyes intense and only on me. Are their eyes feasting on me? Is my flesh being appraised?

The soldier steps forward. A lack of jewels is more than made up by the fact she wears fine chainmail and, in places, partial plate, forearms, shins, and abdomen. An etching of the two bees adorns the abdomen plate. If the scabbard and hilt of the sword are any hint, I assume the sheathed blade is also of high quality.

“We have an available male. He has walked from the northern villages, perhaps the northern waste. He carries no weapons. His hands are callus free.” There is an undercurrent of whispering from others. “His wealth seems limited to what he now wears, plus a few coins. The innkeeper reports he is strong and willing, lifting several beer barrels when asked.”

I don’t seem to remember that, so is this a storytime show, or am I part of an auction?

The Soldier returns to stand beside the throne, and the crone shuffles forward. Her robes aren’t woollen; they somehow shine in the sun. Curious.

“As Luda the Delver decrees, all must give birth. All males need to be in service, so step forward if you wish to challenge for this one’s company until first born and perhaps longer if you establish a lasting bond?”

All the females who followed took a step forward. Several of the Courtyard guards also, and to no one’s surprise except mine, one of my escorts. As she steps forward, two companions pat her shoulder, yet their faces are grim.

I hold up a hand. “What if I don’t wish to be of service? What if I have business elsewhere?”

A warm smile crosses the lips of Queen Luda Lookalike. She takes a breath and begins softly as a mother talking to her recalcitrant child. “You can refuse, but you must drink, eat, and sleep, and so, no matter how powerful or lucky you believe you are, Luda the Delver will deal out her punishment for those who don’t serve.”

“Their journey was long and dark through the mountain.” The chant reverberates through the courtyard. Several heartbeats later, the chant returns through the open gates. Did the entire town reply?

“It is strange that you are so unaware?” She shuffles closer and looks me up and down. I follow her with my eyes, trying to stare her out. A stab of pain. She draws the smallest of blades to her lips. The bleeding on my forearm stops almost as soon as it starts.

She spits and hisses. Gathering her robes, she retreats towards the throne while throwing looks of disgust over her shoulder. Once there, she straightens and points directly at me.

“He is the spawn of Rexa! He carries Lord Klug’s blood!”

That thins out my number of suiters…

Queen Luda Lookalike shoots forth from her throne. “The law is the law. He is male. Therefore, he must serve.” She stares at each of my former suitors, a lingering death stare. Only two rejoin the contest. For one who has held steadfast, my escort seems disappointed.

“Their journey was long and dark through the mountain.” Again, the Town replies.

“We have a contest! As the prize, you choose.” She points at me.

While I don’t just sense it, I know they revile me, yet they quickly offer advice with sharp catcalls. They all must appreciate a good contest.

“Strength of arms!” shouts several, and laughter is the reply. My soft hands and lack of a weapon, I suppose.

“Poetry? Housecleaning!” More laughter.

“Drinking contest!” I shout. “Luda’s Mead.”

Instant silence. Maybe I should have waited … for them to suggest some more.

Queen Luda Lookalike eases herself out of her throne. The crone shuffles in front of her, and after sharing a silent, staring contest, the crone returns to her place.

Her words grind out, “You aim to service me? You reach high indeed. Was this your plan all along? Are you ignorant or an agent of the High Priestess Rexa, who has somehow found us after all these years?” She screams, “I would have the truth before we go any further!”

“Ignorance. I plead ignorance. I have lived a soft life, and drinking mead is as natural as drinking water, but I never had the wealth to drink Luda’s Mead. My folly, therefore, I choose strength of arms. Yes?”

I wish to avoid wholesale bloodshed. This peaceful town doesn’t deserve my wrath, even the two villages I tried to subdue instead of leaving behind wholesale slaughter. Losing Koria and Luda weighs on me more than I realise, even after many days. How can I slaughter Luda’s spawn now?

“Luda’s Sunshine,” she says and cocks an eyebrow.

“Of course. But we can push that aside. I name strength of arms.” I blast everyone with my best wide, flashing smile.

None react.

“Do you know the rules of the contest?”

I could say no. I could guess. Surely, as an intelligent person, I can guess. The villagers didn’t complain when I took them all without a contest. “I win, and I am free to go. They win, and I must lie with them?”

“Ignorant,” hisses the crone. While Queen Luda Lookalike’s face relaxes somewhat.

“No one can alter the contest once declared. There aren’t any scriptures that describe such an occurrence.” She taps her chin. “The contest isn’t about your servicing. It is about your service. You win, and you decide if any females remain by your side once pregnant. You can, in most ways, consider them your slaves. They win, and the reverse is true. One or more can keep you by their side to service them whenever and how often they require. Through multiple pregnancies, even. Only when your seed fails will they consider releasing you. After all, breeding is paramount.”

The only thought I have is the fact that either way, the contest will trap me here for at least nine months …

While deep in thought, preparations for the contest continue around me, and by the time I have run out of peaceful options, they have made everything ready. A long table, four chairs and mugs on one side, the same on the other. At one end, two females from the crowd take their seats, followed by my guard escort and then the Queen.

I face the Queen first. We both drink, and then I move along. As I finish one round, it dawns on me that the more individuals challenge the male, the greater the chance of the male being defeated. The thought almost instantly sobers me.

Luda’s Sunshine is strong liquor and must be expensive such that few can afford to drink it. The two females from the crowd slide from their chairs first. I hear them fall while taking a drink before the Queen. I shift across and watch my warrior escort finish her drink. She empties the mug, holding it upside down to show the crowd.

I grab the mug freshly placed before me. Looking up, our eyes lock. She is intense. “Why so unhappy when many wanted to join?”

Her face is stoic. She replies, “A male will face a final four. All the females must win the contest between all the suitors first to earn their place. We have jumped the step I have always failed at.”

“Why aren’t you happy now? I will seed you either way?”

She waits until I drain my cup. “In a one-on-one contest, the female chooses, and I would have chosen strength of arms, of course.”

The Queen adds, “When there is an outnumbered male, he chooses.”

---

My guard escort is the next to slide off her chair. She fights, trying to hold the edge of the table. When she needs to reach for her next mug, she comes undone.

The Queen’s eyes are sleepy. There are no other outward signs, and she finishes another mug. I drink my reply slowly, feigning a drunken state. My nanorobots, of course, metabolise the alcohol rapidly, extract any water and store any energy. Before her next drink, she calls for a stool, and then I hear an unmistakable steady tinkle. I realise she is emptying her bladder. She straightens her dress, resumes her position at the table and downs another mug using measured sips.

By the rules, I have three slaves who will fornicate with me when I demand them to and once pregnant, I can keep them or desert them. The Queen remains. Her capacity to tolerate Luda’s Mead is prodigious.

Around midday, her arms flail slightly, and the crone rushes to her side. The Queen’s eyes are closed.

The crone hisses, “She is yours, stranger, but be aware that if you harm her, you will not escape our justice.”

My three slaves, awake by this time, even if slumping across the table, are silent, as is everyone else in the courtyard. I believe, on some level, I am now king or at least the Queen’s Consort. She is undoubtedly akin to being my slave, and if I must endure nine months of captivity in this town, I should at least spend the time in complete luxury and breeding oblivion.

P.S. If you are not reading this chapter for free on Royal Road or Scribble Hub, then the website you are on has stolen my story.