---Solgia, Lord Klar’s Scribe and Wife POV

“Thank you.”

The tinkling of the stream’s water running over rocks and washing against the shore can’t steal her words away into the night.

“You’re welcome. We are …”

She stares at me. I can see her eyes because I have been enhancing my body by instructing my helpers, my nanorobots—such an odd name. I prefer the alternative, magic.

“Sister-wives,” she says. There is an undeniable warmth in her words. To think most thought her murderous. Still, losing your forearms is life-changing. Much like my lameness. Until Lord Klar, that is, and his glorious seed. His gift of magic.

“What are you night dreaming about?”

I giggle. “Thinking of Lord Klar’s seed…”

She holds up the beginnings of her hands. One has a finger. “I owe you.”

“I just insisted you leave a dark hole, the rest…” I giggle again. “Is because of his seed and magic.”

Her turn to stare into the night. We both sit in the stream, up to our belly buttons. Our magic holds the chill at bay while our magic feeds on the water.

“I wish he would lie with me now.”

“Get in line, sister-wife. Several females desire him between their legs while sharing a bedroll.”

She slaps the water. “Where has our shy Scribe gone?”

“Being the one everyone wants a piece of has toughened me up.”

“Sorry, I thought only of myself while hiding in that hole.”

I lean across, hug her and whisper, “You needed to take care of yourself. Now you have. Once your hands finish growing, I will, well, use you. Not that Gorgrin wasn’t helpful, but he looked after the wild ones and only helped in the town when I insisted.”

“The Innkeeper?”

“Yes. When the goblins left, she kept herself to herself. Since Lord Klar’s departure, each day she grows bolder, believing in her self-importance.”

“You have Lord Klar’s magic. I am certain you would be more than a match for her,” says the assassin Izga.

“I am a scribe, sister-wife. No, I am more subtle. I have some trusted confidants spying on her and other confidants spying on my confidants.”

She wriggles free from my embrace. “Remind me never to cross you!”

“When you are ready, I will have several of Lord Klar’s subjects that will need your form of justice, I assure you.”

She shows her hands once again. Water drips from them. There is a finger on each hand now. “Regrowing my limbs is now faster than before. I have trained my nano… magic.”

“You also have confidence and belief. The last stages of my foot healing did so quickly. Although Lord Klar was also attentive.” I feel my face flush.

“You are blushing!”

I shake my head. “Slip your whole body into the stream, and I will nurse your head on my thigh.”

“Don’t change the subject… but alright.”

Once Izga settles, I slice my finger on her tusk and feed her a stream of my blood. She slaps the water in protest until I tell her to behave and accept my offer. I can’t give her his seed, but perhaps my blood is a worthy substitute. The sooner her hands are whole, the sooner I can treat some disturbing exceptions. With the dividing up of The Eater Clan, the other clans have become a bit stronger and are looking to flex that strength. They see Lord Klar’s absence as an opportunity. Izga striking them in the dead of the night will give them pause.

---Vorlora, Wolf Rider POV

Watching from afar, I can confirm the rumour. A new village is being founded at Hobgoblin Town’s valley entrance. As sure as the sun rises in the morning, Milga Stone Blood sent me back using this mission as an excuse. She told me that the Lord Klar she knew wouldn’t blame me, and I needed to put my big girl armour on and face him. A bit of news would help, hence this mission. I will be sure to thank her the next time we meet.

She also approved of my games, which was nice. The baiting of the followers of High Priestess Rexa to chase me into the valley of the Oath Keepers and then watch two mortal enemies fight to exhaustion—a simple but gratifying pleasure. I knew little about High Priestess Rexa, but the Oath Keepers owed me. As a bonus, I would pick off any stragglers from either group, although when given a choice, I would choose Oath Keeper every time.

I wonder if any of High Priestess Rexa’s followers ever journeyed back across the plains to join this new settlement?

My wolf knew my thoughts as quickly as I did.

---

Lonely, sad tents leaning in different directions stretch out before me. Loose tent cloth snaps about in the brisk breeze, occasionally breaking the silence—crows squark between picking at the various remains. My wolf and I deftly avoid the half-hidden, cold, blackened firepits strewn about the camping area. Spears, the weapon of choice of the Oath Keeper mercenaries, is the most common weapon lying about. Some are still in a row, the spear rack and spears lying before a clearing, the tent long gone. Half burnt-down pyres litter the landscape, and the putrid smell of some causes my wolf to whine, and we agree to search another area of the camp upwind.

Near dusk, my search fruitless, I force myself to return to where I witnessed her demise. The Oath Keepers have cleared the circle of corpses, the victims of my Mistress’ skill. The base of the dust hill remains. How? I don’t know. What about wind and rain? As the dust hill draws me closer, the explanation becomes apparent.

I free each piece of her armour from the dust hill until the specs fly away on the wind. When I finish, there is no longer a mark of where she last fought. My heart hurts. I question my right to perform this sacrilege as my eyes focus on the collection of her armour. Each piece is a treasure beyond calculation—my last connection to my mistress. Before I lose all light, I grab the collection and return to a familiar hidden camp within the brush.

I clean and polish my Mistress’ armour by the fresh light of dawn. Her scabbard and sword are next. I thought the Oath Keepers would destroy her weapon. For now, it’s a mystery. I use sand in a wet cloth to clean off the crusty dark blood until the steel shines again. Once clean, I use lard on a dry cloth as a final polish, as I did on her armour.

Each piece lies in its proper place on a grass patch—an empty, lifeless body. No fearless, sparkling eyes look back at me from her helm.

My wolf lies off to one side, and I sense his confusion. Why does this lifeless hide hold any meaning? If this tool is better than what I am wearing, why not use it so we can continue? I try to make him understand. He retorts you are alive now; she is not. Over the years, many of my pack have died. We mourn and know that we will join them in the days that follow. For now, you are alive and alpha while she is dust. Wear it or not, but decide. The dead are gone. The living must move forward without them.

---

In loping bounds, we make our way towards Hobgoblin Town. Lord Torngul Heartsplitter, Lord of the Grassplains, would be another I would need to face and apologise to.

The guards at the gate have the gates open before I reach them. They draw back, keeping a sword length’s distance from me. No sooner do I dismount, and a water bowl is under the nose of my wolf. The burly hobgoblin stable hand seemingly unafraid of my wolf, yet eyes me with caution.

Servants clear a path. Even his honour guard knocks on his throne room door and announces me before I am close enough to ask them. I stride into the throne room of Lord Torngul Heartsplitter, Lord of the Grassplains, without being challenged. No question is asked—the massive double doors behind me close with a clang.

What did he say??

“Lord?”

“Welcome! I knew your apprentice had to be addled!” He taps the side of his head. “Too many hits while practising, I am sure.” He chuckles at his joke, and I now realise their mistake, well, my mistake.

I remove her helm.

His jaw drops. In a bluster, he swivels about and seeks the reassurance of his throne. Shaking his head, he glances at me and then shakes his head some more.

He stands and looms over me. I stand my ground.

“Good. She wouldn’t back down, either. Do you plan to continue this impersonation?”

“I… I didn’t. I mean to say, I found her armour, and it was better than my scraps…”

“How does it feel to be mistaken for her?” He cocks an eyebrow.

“No, I meant no harm. Provide me with replacement armour, and I will gladly wear it instead.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, it is too late for that. The news that Duzsia the Relentless is parlaying with Lord Torngul has already been around Hobgoblin Town at least once. She must leave, not her apprentice. Did you walk or ride?”

“I rode. A wolf.” A warmth creeps up my face.

His belly laugh is a roar. “Wolf!” He splutters several times and then recovers. “The legend of Duzsia the Relentless flows in an interesting direction, that is for sure.”

A knock sounds through the throne room doors. I place my mistress’s helm on as we both turn to receive the visitor. The doors crack open, and his wife joins us. She is about to speak, and whatever her question was, dies. The throne room doors close as she approaches her husband and his embrace.

“Let me introduce you to Duzsia the Relentless, my dear.” His hand does a flourish before him but is directed towards me. As she turns in his embrace to face me, his hand around her shoulder taps his head. I remove the helm.

Her eyes flash wide, and then she snickers. “So, that explains how the reported dead can rise and walk again.”

“I was just suggesting to the apprentice that Duzsia rode in. Duzsia must ride out.”

She hangs off his arm. “Certainly, dear. Anything else would have swarms of spies prying their noses into everything, and they may find that Lord Klar’s village direly needs defending. It is ripe for the taking, him being absent for so long.”

“How do you know this?” I demand. Without knowing how I am face to face with Lord Torngul.

“Aggressive…” says his wife. I step back and then curse, admonishing myself to hold my ground.

“The Scribe of Lord Klar’s sent a missive asking for empty sacks.”

“And, why?” I ask.

“She is clever. That is why. When Lord Klar first left, she sent a scruffy hunter type, Gorgrin, who hand-delivered a message to me explaining a code we could use in emergencies. Sacks means soldiers.”

I place her helm on my head.

His wife snickers. “I think she understands husband.”

“You know, of course, that you can’t remove your helm, and the first fight you lose will doubly be the end. Lord Klar’s enemies will think when he is not by their side, this weakens his wives. They will test them all, thinking they are now feeble imitators…”

“I understand.”

“Know that you and his wives must be especially cautious around Clan Hungry and whichever clan they ally with. They lost all their hobgoblin babes, most of them males, because of miscarriage. They don’t know how Lord Klar arranged the deception, but they blame him anyway.”

Raising my voice, I say, “I said, I understand.”

“That is better, and remember, there is no backward step. Duzsia stands where she intends to stand.”

We chat after that; I tell him of my travels. He is especially interested in hearing about Milga Stone Blood. Then I tell him my news. He loses his humour, and all he does is pace. The great Torngul Heartsplitter, Lord of the Grassplains, says nothing. A hobgoblin village aligned with High Priestess Rexa is at the mouth of his valley. Milga said he, if anyone, would be interested in such news. This would also earn any forgiveness I may have required, were her words. We are long past forgiveness, as I must be Duzsia the Relentless and no feeble apprentice.

“I might send an emissary. For me to visit would suggest a false importance.”

“May I leave, Lord Torngul?”

He waves me off, and, using the hilt of my sword, I bash on the throne room doors.

It is late afternoon under a darkening sky, and I am close to returning. To what, I don’t know. It takes all I can muster not to pee my pants. I ride my wolf, heading towards Lord Klar’s village as Duzsia the Relentless.

---Clan Head Zinmog POV

“Why must we skulk about in the woods, Jarlgren? It is undignified!” I stomp my boots on the stone landing of a log cabin deep in the middle of nowhere. We trekked through an ancient forest with moss-covered trees and thick fallen foliage underfoot, and we hadn’t left. A cold, dampness chills my elderly bones. This is a cabin that none of my clan could ever find again. The best we could do to escape would be to always make sure we run downhill. Yet I doubt we would ever reach our farmlands again.

“To be certain, no spies hear of our plans. Do I need to explain this each time?” says my host and ally.

I wave him off and plop myself in the familiar guest chair. The one closest to the fireplace. Same as my previous visits, I am busy rubbing my hands together. Our escorts wait outside.

“What have you been able to find out?”

“They have taken in the winter crop.”

“I know. I remember the profit he made from my humiliation!” With an inordinate amount of restraint, I place a log on the fire instead of hitting him.

“I only mention this because his Head Scribe finished the negotiations. She seems to be the one organising everything now. My son.” He spits into the flames. “Is content playing hunter with my cast-offs, unwilling or most likely unable to rise any higher? Forever useless, that one.”

“Yes. My twin daughters, likewise. I thought one would rise, but neither did. Children can be such disappointments.”

“My spies haven’t seen Lord Klar or most of his wives for a month now.” My host paces, just like the last time.

“None of his wives? It is said he needs to fornicate with them to maintain his strength. Can’t go many days without, or his member will fall off.” We share a chuckle. Neither of us believe this, of course, but it doesn’t stop us laughing at his expense.

“How did your emissary fare with Klugak?”

“A blanket.” Even with a fire, my old bones freeze. I hear him shuffle about. “Klugak contains his anger over the death of his daughter. They refuse to surrender her body, insisting they have already buried her, which especially aggrieves him. My spies report back that there have been no burials or pyres. Klugak is stuck. But he would be a useful ally if we can get him past this impasse.”

A bear’s skin drops across my legs. “You handle the town spying. I will handle the forest spying. But eyes and ears into Lord Torngul’s affairs would, at the very least, warn us of his intentions.”

“We thought that giant of a daughter of Torngul dead as well—the news from the lips of the midwife or one of her helpers. Yet days later, she is walking about not a care in the world after dropping triplets. Unheard of! My wife gave birth to twin daughters. She didn’t stand a chance,” I grouse.

“She was big, and the babes dropped early.” I notice his shrug out of the corner of my eye.

“Perhaps, but this is a first, and I even promised Clan Head Krilzak a reward for any proof of such a thing elsewhere. He sends wagons up and down the plains to trade, and none of his merchants report even rumours of something similar.”

“Krilzak? He will take your gold and tell you anything you want to hear.” He offers me a mug of mulled wine.

I take a sip and mumble to myself. The warmth unfreezes my head, and I remember something odd. “One wife, Izga. Wasn’t she once one of Sakvorpa’s trained pets?”

“Yes, I seem to remember that as well. The slinky, sexy one. None of my hunters have seen her, but one of them traded in his village recently, and everyone believes she still lives. None know what she does, though.”

I count my fingers and realise there are at least two more. “What of the ones who were once Lord Torngul’s Honour Guard?”

“Voria was one. She wasn’t his wife, though, a concubine, perhaps? She drinks herself into oblivion in the village inn. The other Zergoa. She packed some supplies and left to search the mountains for Lord Klar, his pet goblin and Thalgora. None have seen her since.”

“Then, by my calculations, that leaves a Head Scribe, a drunk and a useless half-son of yours, to defend Lord Klar’s holdings, or am I wrong?” I say, with a touch of joy in my heart.

Clan Head Jarlgren stops his pacing to stand between me and the fireplace. “You forget Izga.”

I lean my head to the left and then to the right. As much as I don’t want to admit the truth, they say she is formidable. “Send in one of your hunters to see if he can get a job skinning or tanning hides. She can’t hide forever and is dangerous enough to find out, at least if she is still a threat. My spy in Lord Torngul’s Manor confirmed that Duzsia the Relentless is dead, fighting goblins, apparently.”

He folds his arms. “I would want to see her body before I believe that. How many?”

“Over a hundred, they say, all in a neat circle around her.”

“If you believe that, I have a six-legged boar to sell you.”

“Well, where is she?” I push him for an explanation.

The door of the cabin bursts open, and a chill blows in. One of his hunters. His eyes are wide, a predator’s grin running across his lips.

“Clan Head, we think we have found Zergoa. She appears weak…”

Jarlgren turns to gloat at me. I reply with the slightest of nods.

“Take a hunting party of six, no, make it twelve, with six more in reserve. No mistakes, tell them. I want her alive, if possible, but her tusks as proof would also satisfy me.”

“Yes, Clan Head.” He sprints out of the cabin. Fortunately, another closes the door.

He rubs his hands together. “Her death will be a mystery. None will wonder why she never returned.”

“How will you ensure none of the eighteen, the messenger, and whoever told him and whoever told them to keep the secret?”

He grunts. “They are loyal.”

---Clan Head Durlarg POV

“We have a report, Clan Head, that Duzsia the Relentless has visited Lord Torngul and has only just left and is on her way to Lord Klar’s village,” says my most trusted spy.

I rub my hands together and look over my shoulder at my wife.

“Durlarg, no. We must introduce ourselves to the High Priestess, or at least the one who has convinced many she is the High Priestess. Klugites have finally come to us. Clan Head, are you listening?” pleads my wife.

I eye my wife. She reminds me of my true purpose; therefore, I shall not slap her down. We could do both.

“Load up a couple of wagons with those former Sakvorpa warriors we threw a lifeline to. Explain to them that if they slay Duzsia, who is supposed to be dead, they shall be hirelings no more but full members of The Runner Clan. My wife and I will proceed to the Klugite village as planned.”

“Yes, Clan Head.”

---

The wagon ride southwest to Clan Tireless is a regularly scheduled run. This trip, though, carries four additional passengers: myself, my wife and two trusted bodyguards. Before we reach the farmlands, the wagon pulls up, and we climb down. As the wagon continues, we walk northwest. Half a day later, we reach Smugglers River, uncover the hidden canoe, and continue our journey. The river current does most of the work, and my bodyguards use their oars to guide the craft.

We must camp onshore at night as the journey takes two days to reach the waterfall. My two bodyguards haul the canoe around the waterfall, and we continue. Somewhere around here is the place where Lord Torngul first met Lord Klar, or so the story goes. How I wish that meeting never happened. After another day and a half, a clearing borders the river instead of the forest. Beyond is the beginnings of a large town, perhaps more significant than Hobgoblin Town.

My bodyguards drag the canoe ashore, and I leave one with the canoe while the other escorts us. Busy people are all about us. They labour as if possessed, and none approach us or query our visiting this late afternoon. We follow street markings, even though there are no buildings, as do others. As we close in on the mountain, there is a sheer drop and in this, either naturally or carved out, is a vast cavern. I am envious as I see the trade possibilities. Safe storage from weather or raiding enables gathering all the goods from this valley and, by dawn, travelling across the plains.

“Someone mentioned a stranger visits us?”

Her pure voice is an impossible lure to dismiss. A compulsion forces me to swivel about and discover the source. Her beauty, the smooth, consistent green complexion of her skin, straight teeth, the perfect curve of long tusks, and flowing hair are all I catch until her voice commands my attention once again.

“I am the High Priestess Rexa, reborn. Welcome to the Temple of Klug. Let us praise our revered Lord.”

I believe. My mind is numb with devotion; she is more than I imagined. I wish to stay and never leave her presence…

My wife nudges me from my stupor.

“Clan Head Durlarg, at your service, High Priestess. My wife.” I place a hand on her shoulder. “If you need anyone to join your priesthood, I offer her. Well-spoken, able to scribe and a genuine believer like me!” I flash my best smile and run a finger along one of my thick tusks. All praise my tusks, which are clearly a sign of my virility.

Her warm smile bedazzles. “I appreciate your devotion, but alas, there is no need. I am well served for now.”

My wife whimpers, and my opportunity to worm my clan into this magnificent township and temple is stymied for now.

---Izga, Wife Assassin of Lord Klar POV

“Wake, sister, now!”

My eyes flash open and scan for the person who dares to sneak up on me and succeed. I hear the steady breathing of my Scribe sister-wife and her two assistants, no one else.

“You must trust my next words. Have faith. Do you agree, sister-wife?”

I continue to scan the room, the pale starlight of night the only illumination available to my keen sight. I listen and hear only steady breathing.

“Convinced I am not real? Do you not recognise Klaria, daughter of Klugak, second wife of Lord Klar?”

“Klaria?”

“Yes.”

“Your lessons were true? You stayed beyond death?”

“Yes. But we haven’t much time. You need to save Zergoa.”

“We lost Zergoa. She left to search for Lord Klar. The madness of near-death took hold of her…”

“She is trying to return. She needs your help.”

I am up. My armour, weapons, and clothes—I dress before I realise.

“Izga?”

Solgia? Did I wake her? “Go back to sleep, sister. I must rescue Zergoa.”

“Zergoa?”

I am climbing down the ladder instead of answering her. Morning isn’t far away as the pre-dawn begins.

“Wait, sister-wife. Find a piece of my armour or one of my daggers. I can linger easier if I have something familiar from my former life to fixate on.”

I climb the ladder, open the trapdoor into the tower’s interior, and climb down the internal ladder. Lantern light spills from above to orientate myself. I glide towards a shelf about shoulder height, and my searching hands land on a dagger and sheath.

“This?” I ask.

“Yes. Wear it around your waist. We must hurry.”

Climbing out, I meet and hug Solgia.

“Farewell, sister-wife,” she says as I climb down again.

---

“How do you know she is in trouble?”

“My staying is forever a tug-of-war. The closer I am to my sisters, the more energy and will I need to exert. To rest and regain my strength, I can drift higher. There is a midpoint where I neither gain nor lose energy and will. This is where I spend most of my time. I can see your bonds to Lord Klar. They are silver ribbons from you to him.”

“So, if I asked, can you tell me where Lord Klar is?”

“Yes, and no. All your ribbons, including those of Solgia and Zergoa, stream towards the mountain range. He is no longer in any valley on this side of the mountains or the great plains. Her ribbon hasn’t moved for a couple of days after making good time to return to us.”

I approach the two guards at the gate and surprise them. They recover and rush to open the gate. I pass through the open gate and break out into a jog. I intend to follow farmland and the thin forest beside the river. The morning sun is full when I leave the hills and head into the mountains. Klaria, whispering in my mind, assures me I am heading in the correct direction.

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.