--- Zergoa, Wife of Lord Klar POV

I overhear the savages throw my camp goods about. Why is this my first thought? We have never met, although their facial markings would suggest Beastbane Clan hunters. They are far from their lands. I chew on my inside cheek. This isn’t right.

“We have her. Cliff on one side, an impossible climb on the other.”

“The campfire is still warm,” says another, his voice full of glee. “Have you found any tracks?”

His question is to the one skulking about in front of me, who is only within earshot of his fellow hunters. His eyes are on my tracks, several leading up to the stream as he expects. He jumps across, landing like a frog. Crouching, he examines the other side. The solid stone on that side gives nothing away. He shuffles forward to the edge of the stone and pauses. The boot imprint I left him captures his attention. His head rises, and he scrutinises further along. My tracks are suggestive, but inconclusive because this section has too much exposed stone. He wants to believe that I heard them approach and then fled without thinking of packing up my camp.

I didn’t know who they were the first time I spied them from a distance. Being cautious, I snuck up on their camp and eavesdropped. To my surprise, I discovered I was their prey. At least three groups of six. This camp is one group. The beaters they named themselves. They would herd me at full flight into their companions lying in ambush.

“She is running,” he calls back as he scans his surroundings.

None ever look down.

He doubts his own words because as he turns to leave, he casts one last look and sighs. Dusk is approaching. I hear the crackling of my firewood on the campfire and smell my fresh kill sizzling. He sniffs towards my former camp and follows his nose.

I risk shifting some rocks into the stream to make my position more comfortable. The vegetation is sparse and provides for only two places to hide. I take the furthest from the game trail stream crossing. My nanorobots feed off the water and warm me. The six will need water shortly, and I mean to ambush them.

Two eventually approach the stream. One hunter drops to his haunches and begins filling one of several water skins. The other keeps an eye out. I puff. The dart races up the pipe, and with a zip, strikes the one standing. His hand slaps at his neck. “Big insects!”

He turns his hand over and examines the insect, his eyes flying wide simultaneously. He taps his companion’s shoulder and lowers his hand. “What sort of insect is this?”

The second slaps his neck as my dart strikes home.

“Stupid fool, sound the alarm and run,” growls the second while climbing to his feet and grabbing at his sting.

The first tries to yell, but unfortunately, his throat is swelling. Number two bends down to help the first, who drops to his knees and tries to breathe. The second lets out a whimper of a shout and drops to his knees.

I place my blowpipe on a nearby rock and explode from my prone position in the creek, rushing both. Their eyes are wide when I kick each of them in the head. On my knees, I push them over the edge. I don’t wait for the drop. While they can’t yell, I am sure their bodies will break branches and tree limbs on the way down. My priority is to return to my hidden position in the stream.

My face sinks below the water, leaving my eyes and nose above. A newcomer hurries to the stream to investigate, another not far behind him carrying torches. Their hands trail through the crushed grasses beside the stream. They follow the trampled grass because I rolled the bodies. They slap the back of their necks and examine the bugs that sting them. Both exchange looks and try to speak while backing away from the cliff’s edge. I push one, and the second glances over his shoulder. He flies over the cliff next.

I hear a twig snap behind me and swivel about in a crouching stance, drawing my sword.

“Clever,” says one I don’t recognise. He throws the two halves of my blowpipe into the stream, and shortly after, they float by me and over the cliff, adding rubbish to the waterfall.

Forming a half circle around me are the last two of the six and five newcomers wielding spears, sliding forward one step at a time. Where did the second six come from? Weren’t they to lay an ambush further along?

“I am certain you fancy your chances. Your reputation proceeds you, of course, being a wife of Lord Klar. But we are hunters of Clan Beastbane, and, to us, you are another beast.”

“I killed four hunters. Were their deaths worth it?”

“We will remember their names around a campfire. Those who sacrificed so that we could capture a rare, elusive, and dangerous beast.” He raises an eyebrow. “Or slay.”

“Who do you think I am? Because I am nothing, I assure you.”

“I admire your skill and bravado. Six of us, and you didn’t even try to run? Fortunately for us, we are three groups of six. Others wait for you further along. We watched the first six to see if you would attack them and, if so, how. Most natural prey runs until cornered. You didn’t wait, it seems. Good for you.” His superior smile is irritating, and I wish for nothing more than to throw him over the cliff behind me. “Now, unless you want my companions to poke and prod you off the ledge, you will drop your sword and offer your hands for binding.”

There would be a pool of water at the waterfall’s base, but would it be enough? The drop, though, would kill most, if not everyone. Lord Klar? A question for another time. Live to fight another day? They seem intent on capture… I drop my sword and offer my wrists.

One steps forward while the others prepare for me to react. There are visible sighs of relief when my wrists are bound. The one who did the tying drags me away from the cliff edge until I am face to face with the talkative one.

He nods his head, and two others hold my arms in place. I struggle and believe I could throw them off, but behind them are five spears ready to thrust. When I settle, he holds up one of my darts. Before I can speak, he stabs my hands. Swelling and numbness creeps over them.

“I do like these.” He flicks his fingers. This means something to them as three of his companions return for backpacks, and another three grab torches and light them. The black of night recedes. I realise now that the campfire and cooking were what I expected, so I didn’t question that they could have been testing me. Four of them, though? Who accepts such a loss?

My eight escorts enter a new camp and, with slaps and embracing, greet another six. One of those six throws down a torch to light a huge bonfire. A signal? A second, smaller stack of wood is nearby. Are they intending to have an all-night celebration? Wine? Mead? Please tell me they have some.

With spear points resting against my abdomen, they tie my ankles and untie my wrists. Next, they remove my armour and weapon sheaths. Once done, they bind my wrists again around a standing post and untie my ankles. They are almost revenant as they fold and stack my armour. My sheathed weapons crown the pile. Odd.

He playfully slaps my cheek twice and then grabs at my tusks, shaking my head. Pointing at the fire, he says, “We are telling our Clan Head that we have been successful and await his answer.” His smile is predatory.

His companions spare me sly glances. All seem to know something. A secret. They go about encamping, as expected, but something is off. One I didn’t notice comes sprinting back from somewhere, a broad, joyful smile on his lips. When his leader nods, his head snaps in my direction. Even in the flickering, dying light of the bonfire, I see an eager excitement in his eyes.

The leader saunters over to face me. “Well, it seems we know your fate.” Behind him, under wavering torch light, I notice several of them picking up wood. The pit of my stomach churns as I see them approach. They have yet to feed me or offer water. I swallow.

“Yes, our Clan Head has concluded a dead wife is better than a prisoner wife.” The tumbling of the firewood at my feet is an abstract. My mind is racing to many conclusions. They were to take me prisoner, weren’t they? I should have taken more of them with me and died on my feet. At least, in the end, I could have dived over the cliff, taking whatever slim chance I could. Am I to be burnt at the stake?

The leader’s face twists in anger. The messenger drops to the ground as the leader’s backhand slaps his face. “Where are you supposed to be?”

A limp arm points towards what I assume is the cliff edge.

“Why aren’t you there?” he growls.

“We have her?”

The leader glances in my direction, and then his eyes are again on the messenger. “His wives are a pack. We are hunting a pack! How many times does it take for you to learn that? Now go.”

The messenger scrambles to his feet and stumbles out of camp.

The leader flicks his fingers three times. Three of his companions leave camp and head off into the night. Their protests weren’t refusal, more like disappointment. Did he just order them to night watch? Were they going to miss my death? My nanorobots neutralised the ichor from my darts almost immediately, not that using my hands would be of immediate help. I had already tried to twist my wrists to test the leather throngs. As subtle as I can, I lean on the post. My thighs straining to push against the immobile.

His laughter catches me out.

“We dug deep and then hammered the post further. The wives of Lord Klar are strong. No one knows if he strengthens you or you strengthen him, or perhaps there is some shared bond. But we took no chances.”

The messenger returns, panic on his face and out of breath. The leader grabs him by his tusks to draw his face close.

“Another is coming. The signal, I saw the signal. I swear.”

“You know what you must do?”

The messenger nods and runs into the dark. While uncertain, I am reasonably confident that he follows the path taken by one of the three.

“Someone is coming to rescue you, it seems.” His smug, overconfident look is almost unbearable. “Somehow, you are a pack, and no one knows how. Clan Head Jarlgren has paid for any rumour, gossip, or report involving Lord Klar and his wives. We also have spies in your town and always have eyes on the roads, paths, and gates. Nothing comes or goes without us knowing. When your Lord swindled our Clan Head, he made a blood oath enemy.”

“Your Clan Head is crazy. He and Lord Klar made a deal, no more, no less.” His spill of information confirms he means to kill me. Otherwise, his secret would become common knowledge. I try to prepare myself for death, yet how?

“No!” He backhands my face, but I won’t yield. “His prized despatch is a witness report of Lord Klar’s goblin and hobgoblin wives working as one, slaying over one hundred battle-hardened goblins like harvesting wheat. But even better was the goblin’s escape after the hobgoblin turned to dust. While she was bound, fifty goblins entered her tent, and none left. She slew them all.”

“Pure exaggeration, tall tales for free drinks at an inn.”

He wiggles his finger back and forth before me. “No. We captured several of the goblins after the battle while they foraged. On their lives, they swore. Even the hobgoblin wife turning to dust.”

“They needed to explain their defeat, so they invented an enemy, which none could prove real or false afterwards.”

He adjusts several logs. “We thought that might be the case as well. So, we waited and watched. Someone visited the battle site several days back, and guess what?” He shakes my head by grabbing my tusks. “Someone picked up the hobgoblin’s armour, dusted it off, polished it and even wore it. Hobgoblin Town was abuzz with gossip that Duzsia, the wife of Lord Klar, hadn’t died. She just rushed off to capture a pet wolf!”

We know something turned Duzsia and Klaria to dust. So, who would’ve taken up Duzsia’s armour?

“Is my story confusing to you? Want me to talk slower? Didn’t your sister-wives tell you? Poor, poor you. Well, soon you won’t have to worry. We are only sad that Lord Klar, the goblin fiend, and Lord Torngul’s daughter never returned to be ambushed, but you will do.”

The messenger bursts into the camp and sprints towards us. “One is down.”

“Well. Looks like we have company, and I must complete preparations.” He throws a couple of torches onto the chopped wood and twigs at my feet, and slinks off. I look down, and there is a sense of relief because they piled the wood at my feet, not entirely around me. I climb my feet out of the pile while shimmying up the post. The heat is building. I prepare my nanorobots to deaden the pain and hope the flames burn my bindings before they consume my hands. Why aren’t they stopping me? Where are they? I hear yelling from the woods about the camp. It is them, I am sure. They are calling out to each other. Are they trying to co-ordinate and herd my rescuer?

I spy her face in the dark. Her wonderful slim face. She is listening. The heat is rising, and my nanorobots act to quell the pain. The smell of my burning flesh reaches my nose. Izga darts towards me. Her graceful running is like a dream. We can see each other clearly, four body lengths away, three body lengths, and then she yelps. The ground opens underneath her. She briefly flails her arms and legs, then disappears. I recognise the squelch. Only spears thrusting through flesh make that sound. Beautiful Izga. Tears roll down my cheeks, and then I bellow out my hurt!

Three, then one more. Why is this hunter late? They peer over the edge of the pit. “I told you the extra depth would do the trick.”

Then I recognised his voice. “Pack animals. They will always try to save their own. You were excellent bait, my dear. I wasn’t certain if you would turn on the pole or not. But did it really matter? There was fire on the other side, so she could only approach you from this side. Plus, she needed to rush, of course, to save you from certain death. Fire consumes.”

I imagine my death. Feel my nanorobots do my bidding. My flesh dries rapidly, and I am confident my dust will add to the soil.

My spirit rises just as Klaria described.

“Fixate on your armour or weapons, sister-wife.”

I remember her words if freshly spoken and trust them. My armour and weapons are where they left them, and I float effortlessly above them.

“I am sorry, Zergoa. I should have prepared for the possibility they hunted us. What will become of Solgia? I was to be her saviour as well.”

Now I hear Izga speaking to me. How is that possible?

“We are with you, sister-wife.” They speak as one. “Observe our conquerors.”

They retrieve Izga’s bloodied body, pierced multiple times by spears, hanging in the deep pit trap. Something I am confident my sister-wife would have spotted if not focused solely on saving me. They remove her armour and weapons, then clean and stack them beside mine. Her body they throw onto my pyre. They then celebrate by sharing mead, toasting their victory, and recalling the names of their dead. As they name each, they add their body to the fire.

We follow because we must. Five of the nineteen hunters decamp and march off at first light. I assume they are returning victorious to their clan head.

---Rexa, former High Priestess of Klug POV

“N… nothing,” he stammers. He is no warrior; did he really help conceive the baby flesh I inhabit?

“Karo and Ligia assisted Zoria Oath Keeper in her duties. But like many wives of Lord Klug, they were pregnant at the time of his death. High Priestess Rexa took all their babies into her care to control their mothers. Someone warned Karo and Ligia, and they secretly replaced their babies. High Priestess Rexa only learnt of this much later when the growth rates of the various children differed so much. Lord Klug’s seed was always a vigorous blessing. The point I make is that you have no history of them, and neither does the Temple or the Tower of the Oath Keepers.”

Again, he grovels. “I beg forgiveness, High Priestess.”

Those two conniving bitches, they will be dust by now. Nobody cared about them. I recognise her voice. She is the petulant one, a mere Voter member of the Circle of Ascension, not my chosen. More importantly, how did the Oath Keeper voter usurp and make herself High Priestess? Damm, these infant’s eyes. She has fled from my sight and is once again a seated blur.

“You will have my forgiveness when you apologise to the crone of my Oath Keepers. You should always remember they are Oath Keepers. They don’t make a habit of lying, and they certainly wouldn’t lie to their High Priestess.”

I should have had my son storm their tower and slay them all. Zoria, the betrayer, made them think of themselves as incredibly blessed. When this infantile body grows, they will be the first to feel my wrath. They are a misguided plague that needs to be extinguished.

Save me, Lord Klug, he grovels again. “I apologise. No one will know everything, least of all me.”

I hear her reply. “I accept your apology.”

His mewling voice annoys me. I try to swear at him, but all this baby voice can do is howl and then I feel a scratch on my arm. Ouch. Now I cry for real. My infantile eyes are clear enough to realise the ground is rising to meet me. No, I am not rising; I am falling, and my head targets a stone.

---

My spirit is once again free of flesh and rising. I don’t panic this time. Reaching equilibrium is well within me, but I don’t dally. I know some unwritten rule limits my time, so my search for a replacement begins immediately. I need to avoid a newborn, which should be possible as I now recognise the signature. Looking down, I observe scant candidates. This shocks me. What has happened to the worship of Lord Klug, or specifically, what has targeted my direct descendants?

I track ones and twos, travelling in a specific direction. North, south, east, or west, I am unsure. I only know the valley. One way lies the mountains, the other way, the plains. I race ahead of these stragglers and find a modest gathering of my kin after a time.

Now, to observe. I feel my spirit being drawn, a tug to rise, which, with effort, I resist. I need to find an anchor. There is a descendant who shines brightly. I latch on. To dislodge this spirit is impossible, but the shining strength allows me to fix myself in this world, and I am grateful. Could I tether to her until another opportunity arises?

A wife? I hoover closer. Yes, she must be his wife. They seem familiar with each other. She and her partner relax by a river, taking in the sun. A third life approaches them, and they don’t glow like her partner. They embrace, and shortly after, my anchor dims. Then becomes faint. I rapidly descend, and all her former glow is gone when I reach her. I invade her body. Water fills my lungs. As I take ownership, pain radiates from around my neck. Did the pair strangle my new body? Not an embrace, then?

I flop my arms in search of something, anything to grab. When I strike something rough, I grab it with both hands and attempt to lift my body. The water in my lungs will be my death. I slip back into the river. Get rid of the water, I admonish myself. I cough, to no avail. Drawing myself up, there is nothing to rest on. My log isn’t large enough. I face my head down and cough again. Anger rises red hot within me. I have a body, an adult body, and I am not failing now.

I tell my body to rid itself of the water, consume, destroy, do anything. Survival is my sole priority; I need to breathe to survive. My head sways, and weakness takes root in my arms. I feel my grip on the log slipping. Silently, I try to scream out my frustration. To my complete surprise, I draw in a deep breath. Air fills my lungs while my neck aches with incredible pain. I order my body to heal my neck.

There was always something in Lord Klug’s blood. Without my influence, they would go about doing what they needed. Conveying a feeling of well-being. Being aware of their presence and commanding them was a leap too far for me then. In these last moments, I believed I had nothing to lose. So, whatever they were, I commanded them and bent them to meet my needs.

With all this water around me, I feel an incredible thirst rise from within. I dip my head and drink. As the water flows down my throat, the swallowing pain fades until no more. A wonder.

One arm over my log, the other stroking at the water, and I reach the bank after a while. The river has carried me away, so I don’t know where I am. But I am alive in an adult body and must correct at least one immediate wrong.

I crawl out of the water, climb to my feet, and promptly fall over. I rise on one elbow and blink to be sure. There is an outwards twist in my right ankle. Anger blinds me, and I grab a rock and smash my ankle. The frustration of being this close to returning and being so unlucky. I hammer flesh and bone until the pain overwhelms me.

I wake up because of the throbbing pain in my ankle. What insanity overcame me? A black, bloodied pulp is the result. I hoist the bloody ankle up for a better view and see white and almost faint. Recovering, I shift the other leg under. With one leg on the other, I slide by the bottom and stretch my legs. I rest to recover from the pain and then repeat. Shortly after, the river water washes over the smashed ankle, cleaning away the blood and revealing hopelessness. What was once inadequately functional is now beyond recognisable.

Hot, bitter tears roll down my cheeks. I wish to be whole. Is that so bad? I shout at my useless foot and imagine it whole and functioning. Dream of running through long grass. The next moment I am out, like suffering a hammer blow to the head.

---

“Here!”

Is this the first or the last call I hear? I blink my eyes, and bright morning sunlight forces me to close them. Several shadows shield me from the sun’s rays, and I open my eyes again.

“She’s alive, she’s alive!” Several young females call out in celebration. I notice the light linen dresses they wear and their brooches. The silver sword crossed with a single golden bushel of wheat glow. I blink. That’s new. I glance down and spot the one pinned on my identical linen dress. We are the same. Same what?

“The High Priestess will be so pleased!” shouts one while another offers me her hand.

A third youthful helper circles around to my other side, holding her arms out, readying herself. For what?

They all draw in a deep breath as I climb to my feet. My feet squirm in the river sand. When they recover, they point at the ground. Of course. I am now whole as Lord Klar’s High Priestess should be. His blessing lives on in my descendants, available to me when required so I can serve him.

“When drowning, I prayed to Lord Klug. Not only did he save me, but he also blessed my foot,” I confess to them.

They rush in for a group hug, and after a close call, we avoid falling about and possibly getting wet. Why is that bad? Water is to be embraced. Water is my ally.

“My acolyte maiden lives then.” The pure musical tone of her voice is beguiling.

Those helping me immediately swivel about while straightening their dresses and, after, immediately drop to one knee. I suspect another acolyte is beside this unquestionable beauty. Against my will, I mimic my fellow acolytes and drop to one knee.

“Rise my acolytes. And you,” she says, her eyes on me. “Come into my embrace and enjoy my favour.”

Enjoy my favour? I shuffle forward. The acolyte beside her tilts her head. Do they all expect me to be giddy and excited?

Her arms wrap around me. “You must have suffered so. Still in shock, perhaps? Your acolyte sister told me of your double blessing. Surviving drowning and your ankle once again new.” Her gentle pats on my back are relieving. Again, I must command myself. Tears well up behind my eyes! Her voice? Her touch?

She holds me at arm’s length. Her eyes command mine while her thumb caresses my head. A wetness draws on my forehead, and those around me gasp. I blink to escape her eyes. Her warm, kind smile greets me. “Come.” Her arm hangs out, waiting for me to wrap mine in hers.

Then I feel the invaders.

Their presence ignites a recognition within me. They are the same as mine, my helpers, my gift from Lord Klug. They occupy my new body because this hobgoblin female is my ancestor, and all my ancestors pass down their blood. I am sure my kin weren’t fully aware of their helpers. Like, until moments ago, I wasn’t. They probably prayed to Lord Klug like I once did, not realising his helpers are his agents, which the faithful can command. This means she is in command of her helpers. Is she a relative of mine?

I try to capture her helpers. I try conversion next and they convert some of my helpers instead. Battle and conquest are all that remain. In the blink of an eye, hundreds of my helpers are gone, but so are hers.

She blinks. Her arm sweeps me into her embrace, an irresistible force. “You are full of surprises, acolyte.”

As we all stroll towards a township, I spy the huge cavern looming up from behind. The visage is similar yet different to Lord Klug’s temple, where I invoked his worship. Then, in a blink, my present situation returns. This must be her temple, and she must be his priestess here. Is she truly his High Priestess? Does she stand with or against the Oath Keeper usurper? Am I to be her ally or enemy?

I note two furtive looks. Yes, I remember the male. He said he was someone important. Him, at least, I owe a throttling. Bribery to leave? Then his hands were on my throat. The female beside him squirms under my gaze, and I am sure I will discover why.

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.