---Vorlora, Wolf Rider POV

Wide open goblin’s eyes look over my shoulder. Old Wolf whines. I throw myself sideways and wear blood splatter from an axe, which splits the goblin in half, head to navel. I continue to roll and bounce to my feet while drawing my sword. The axe falls again, and I jump clear instead of trying to parry. The male hobgoblin is massive. Cured furs, his ritual face scarring a dead giveaway. Clan Beastbane. Shuddering from shock, Old Wolf’s calm maturity and warmth pulses through our bond.

I hear Old Wolf growl and spare a glance in his direction. Another two with a net are trying to capture him, but he manages, for now, at least, to dance away. My prisoners, I assume, have escaped or possibly have decided the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Darting between the standing grass is my only hope. His crashing through is louder, which covers any noise my aimless escape makes. Before distance prevents me, I utilise our fading bond link to order Old Wolf to bolt, escape, and urge him to stay alive. He mentally laughs in reply, with joy in his heart. He is looking forward to this game.

I dash through the grass with his confidence uppermost in my mind. Itching in my armour guides me, and I place my entire trust in this miracle. Do I have any other choice? Both my ankles itch. I halt. I can hear the thrashing growing distant and sigh with relief.

My right arm itches and I ready my sword. A face appears through the grass, and by pure reflex, I stab. The body falls, and my blade slides out of my first captive’s eye socket. The entire left side of my body itches, and I throw myself in that direction. Not the massive one, but a larger-than-normal hobgoblin, another belonging to Beastbane, bursts through the grass.

Before I can try to raise my sword, he somersaults over my first captive’s body to land on his back. The raising of my sword to parry turns into a reverse swing. I cut deep into his thigh, and he tries to bellow but can’t find the breath. My dagger is in my left hand, and I strike for his throat. At the last moment, he rolls away, and I slice his ear instead.

My thighs itch. I climb to my feet and sprint into the long grass. Angry words chase me. “We know you aren’t who you pretend to be. Stop this folly, and we will make your death swift. Otherwise, you will suffer.”

My itches guide me until I meet Old Wolf. He licks my face, and I hug his neck. I quickly relay my kill and close escape. There is an itch in the seat of my pants. Ride Old Wolf, perhaps? I slide onto his back, and itches continue to guide me. We travel for some distance, and then I receive another itch in my pants and dismount.

I listen as I receive no more guidance.

---

“I thought he would be done by now?” complains one voice.

A chuckle. “Would you like to go check? Interrupt him, perhaps?”

“He would mistake either of us on a whim if he thought it was fun. No, he has his two usuals with him.” I hear him spit. “They can keep him.”

My right arm itches. Does my guide want me to attack? I chew the side of my cheek. Am I ready for this? Trust in myself. Milga tested me. Her hobgoblin namesake pushed me. This is real, though. Old Wolf nudges me with his nose.

We can do this, he assures me.

I peer through the grass. The camp is beside the river under a full-grown shade tree. I suspect such a tree would be visible to the massive hobgoblin in the tall grass.

Only one of them faces us, but not directly. Old Wolf will leap upon the second while I charge the other. Resisting the urge to yell for courage, I jump to my feet and rush forward for all I am worth. My nanorobots respond to my needs, adding energy to my thighs.

My sword is swinging down at his head as he rises while trying to draw his axe from behind his back. No! My blade is going to strike the haft of his axe. At the last moment, I redirect the downward arc and swing across. I am uncertain which of us is the most shocked. Duzsia’s steel blade slices through his wrist, and he screams. His good hand tries to stem the blood flow from his stump. His axe falls away. I draw back my sword and stab. My blade finds his heart, and he finds peace.

Old Wolf is still chewing out the neck of the other, and with one last effort, the head of the second hobgoblin flies away. My pants itch, and I am quickly on Old Wolf’s back, returning to the long grass.

Not long after, I hear a bellowing roar. One of the clan hobgoblins has discovered our slaughter. A challenge, perhaps. We circle. Why are we returning to their camp? At my guide’s urging, I ride through the tall grass bordering their camp, sword at the ready. A hobgoblin sits on a log, bandaging his thigh because of the wound I gave him. Old Wolf gallops onward. Can’t he hear us? My blade is an extension of my arm, and I swing at his neck. His head separates. Sparing a glance, I witness it sail off into the river.

Without pause, we charge back into the grass. I can hear us crash through, so I am sure others could, yet this is what my guide urges me to do. Before I can redirect Old Wolf, he gallops over a running hobgoblin, knocking her to the ground. I leap off Old Wolf and rush at her. She releases her sword.

“Please, we were under orders.”

“But you lied to me,” I snarl.

“I was afraid. It was Clan Head Durlarg. I swear I tell you the truth now.”

There is an itch in my sword arm. But she is defenceless? She rolls away. Because of hesitation, my downward stab misses. Old Wolf has no mercy and snaps at her head. He closes his jaws across the back of her neck and shakes her like raw meat. She whimpers and then falls silent. There is an itch in the seat of my pants, and we are away again. I pat Old Wolf. Even with nanorobots, the frequent riding and carrying my weight is tiring him. We head back to the river.

Peering through the grass, I realise this is a different stretch of the river. I guide Old Wolf into the water, leaping off before I wet my boots. I crouch by the river’s edge to scoop handfuls of water into my mouth. A long time passed without itches, and I wondered if my guide had left me. My hesitation? I summon Old Wolf from the water and decide to at least find some cover.

I listen while Old Wolf uses his nose. Dusk isn’t far off, and there are at least two more hunting me — well, probably us. There is no roar yet. Therefore, I am confident they haven’t returned to their camp by the river, which means they are still searching for us in the tall grass. We are resting while they are hopefully tiring themselves.

---

“Here,” hisses a voice. “Towards the river, no, into the river.”

“What they swam across?”

It is him. I am certain. I command Old Wolf to leap on the one at the river. Shortly, he will find my footfalls in the river sand, if not already. This leaves the giant hobgoblin for me. My body almost betrays me, but I hold my water.

We go our separate ways towards our prey. Old Wolf leaps first. The giant yells a warning, but Old Wolf lands heavily on the back of his prey, and then I lose sight of them. Old Wolf’s distraction enables me to close on the giant hobgoblin. I don’t swing high. Instead, I strike with all my strength at the back of his knee. My blade bites deep, and he collapses. A raging growl follows. I try to withdraw my blade but can’t. His massive thigh and calf meet to lock the blade in place. He looks over his shoulder. Our eyes meet, and I release the grip on my sword as his hand reaches for mine. I jump back for good measure.

Incredibly, he rises on one leg. My sword stays impaled in the back of his knee as he stretches that leg out, testing it. He reaches for the huge double-bladed axe slung on his massive back.

“You are dead, snivelling whelp.”

I move around him. He pivots on his wounded leg to face me while taking practice swings with his axe. He just needs to get lucky once, and his massive axe will slice me in two.

“What do we have here?”

We snap our heads around to see who will gain from the intrusion.

“Gorgrin, you shit. How could you forswear your Clan?” The giant spits at him.

“I thought I heard your roar from across the river. Lucky for me, my hunting party and I investigated. Does the sword hurt?” Gorgrin chuckles. “Do you throw down your axe?”

The huntresses escorting Gorgrin nock an arrow and drawback on their bows.

“You will need to take my axe from my dead hands. Do you have the balls to try?”

Before I can blink, Gorgrin releases an arrow. The shaft pierces the giant’s thigh above his good knee. He grunts, spittle escaping his mouth. Shortly after, a female hobgoblin from the town leads several cloaked hobgoblins to join us. He must surrender, I reason.

“What about now?” asks Gorgrin.

The giant chuckles. “I think the odds are about right, I reckon.”

The new arrivals throw back their cloaks and launch themselves at Gorgrin and his huntresses.

One of them charges at Gorgrin, yelling, “How can you betray the Clan and teach females to hunt? You are lower than the dirt beneath my feet, and we will make you pay!”

“What the shit,” yells Gorgrin as he releases an arrow at his accuser, taking him in the eye. Then another attacks him, and he fends off the attacker’s spear with his bow.

I charge and aim to punch the spear-wielding hunter in the face. Gorgrin parries with his bow again, drawing his attention, and I smash the hunter in the nose. Gorgrin frees his axe and swings while the hunter weakly raises his spear to face me, half stunned. An axe head bites into his shoulder, and I snatch his spear from weakening hands. My attention returns to the giant. Who, I had guessed correctly, was incapable of any swift movement, although he held his axe high, ready to swing.

I dance around him now, using the spear’s length to keep my distance while striking from his blindside. I spare the occasional glance to check if Gorgrin is still standing. Old Wolf has gone hunting.

A wounded Gorgrin and another huntress are still standing when the giant drops to his knees, the shaft of his axe providing a third leg to prop up his bleeding body. He eyes me and shakes his head.

“How does a false whelp defeat me?”

An arrow transfixes his head, ear to ear, and I jump back. Like an enormous tree in the forest, the giant hobgoblin crashes to the ground.

“I am brave when needs be, but while he still draws breath, there is no way I am putting my body within range of his axe.”

I nod towards his huntresses. “Not our hobgoblins, then?”

“No, more sinister than that. The one who led them to us must have gathered them from close by. Can only assume spies would be that handy. She, though, looks to be one of the cooks or the like, which is troubling.”

I free my sword from the giant hobgoblin’s knee and step over his axe. Then, I check the silent and groaning bodies. “Any of the spies alive or just yours?”

“Just ours,” whispers the still standing huntress.

“What story do we tell?”

He sighs. “We can’t float them down the river, too slow and winding. Plus, they must pass by another clan unnoticed. We will need to bury them.”

“And me?”

“I suggest you weren’t here. Duzsia would have been… enough,” he answers. His eyes avoid mine.

Dusk passes into night as we bury the last, theirs and ours. I know my digging efforts far exceed what would be considered average, but I am angry and don’t hold back calling on my nanorobots.

A simple truth has hit me. I may wear her armour, but I am not Duzsia. To pretend would be more dangerous than not. Others would set expectations high, and failure would be that more telling. I call Old Wolf to me and decide I will ride him into the village at first light, but I will leave her helm off.

Old Wolf followed the female hobgoblin, who led the spies to us. She met with others, reported to them, and then they slew her. I told Gorgrin of her fate before we went our separate ways.

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

“Wake, sister-wife.”

What? I roll over. I must be dreaming.

The same voice rings in my head again and again. I awaken.

“Klaria? But how?”

“We share a bond, sister-wife, beyond death. I have made a grave mistake and underestimated our enemy.”

I chuckle and then cover my mouth. “You think we have only one?” I spare a glance to check on my two juniors.

“My folly has led to Izga and Zergoa’s deaths. Such a waste. Also, what is worse, their spirits travel with their slayers.”

“Possibly not a waste, sister-wife. Can they eavesdrop?”

“Yes.”

“Why or how do you return to me?”

“We stored my armour and sword below, and before you ask, Izga took my dagger with her.”

I rub my eyes and stretch. “Good. We will have two spies in their camp. Also, you can travel between to relay any eavesdropping. Yes?”

“Yes. But why are you so calm?”

“I am a former slave. Slaves live or suffer at the whim of their masters. I have lived in fear for most of my life and learnt that panic kills quick. Tell me everything about what happened to Zergoa and Izga.”

I listen to the spirit of my sister-wife. She relays what she witnessed. What Izga and especially Zergoa told her. As she finishes, it is plain to me that Clan Beastbane is the immediate threat. With Duzsia’s apprentice returning and the details of her ambush, Clan Head Durlarg is also a threat but opportunistic. He took a chance and threw some pawns at a possibility. Clan Head Jarlgren has gathered information and developed plans. Worse, he has been successful. Success will only encourage him, so the top of the list is to ensure he suffers a failure. The death of one of his champions was a good start, but not enough. I am still wondering why he tried to kill or capture Vorlora. Or was she to be the bait to attract Gorgrin and to kill him, the teacher of the hobgoblin huntresses?

Duzsia joins us. “Solgia, it seems you are alone…”

“No, you will be ample company. Although, describe your contact with Vorlora, given she isn’t one of Lord Klar’s wives?”

“Simple, really. I agitated her nanorobots. There isn’t any control. They are rejecting my attempt.”

“Would you or Klaria be able to communicate with Voria in the same way?”

There is a pause.

“Klaria and I will do some tests.”

“Good. Over the next few days, I need you two to identify the Clan Beastbane’s spies. They will need to change shifts if keeping watch from afar or need to pass off any information if spying within the village, the fields, or the forests. For my part, I will more openly send some messages and confess my concerns or be upbeat about promises of non-existent help. This should create a flurry of information for them to report. Now go.”

I expected Klaria, second wife of Lord Klar, to protest about me giving the orders, but perhaps being a spirit and the guilt over the deaths of Zergoa and Izga has tamed her somewhat.

---

I break my fast and dress as usual, although I now add Klaria’s shin armour to my dressing routine. Right on time, Vorlora and Voria join me in Lord Klar’s tower.

“Have you and Voria drowned your sorrows in mead at the Inn the last few days?” I ask Vorlora.

“Yes, mistress.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Your mistress isn’t me. Solgia or Head Scribe will do.” She nods. “You have the innkeeper convinced you are heading towards a drunken stupor like Voria?”

“Yes, Solgia.”

“Since you are now drinking buddies, buy up big and find a quiet place to drink together. One that is away from spying eyes so Voria can continue your training. What Duzsia has begun, Voria must finish to the best of her ability.”

They nod as one and leave via the ladder.

As they climb the ladder, I shift Duzsia’s sheath and dagger around my waist. Wearing a weapon will take some getting used to, but I must ensure Duzsia and Klaria can return to me.

He waits for me as ordered.

“What are you doing about finding more betraying Beastbane females?”

Gorgrin scratches his head. “Nothing until you tell me otherwise?”

I slap the big, lovable brute on his shoulder. “Correct!” He rocks back on his heels, a playful smile on his lips. “I hope to learn more about our Clan Beastbane infection over the next few days, so business as usual for now.” He nods, of course. “More urgently, I need you to travel to Hobgoblin Town and see if we can hire several mercenaries from Lord Torngul.” I hand him a scroll. “Don’t lose it. The scroll commits us to sell our grain to the bearer. You must deliver it to Lord Torngul.”

“I will take a couple of huntresses with me,” he murmurs.

“Ride the beasts. They sorely need exercise.”

His cheerful grin before hurrying off is enough to confirm he welcomes the offer.

“Scribe Solgia, why does he, erm, accept your orders? You are female, and he is still a Clan Beastbane hunter …” says the more vocal of my two bodyguards.

Do I offer my opinion, knowing it could be wrong?

“He is uncertain of his future, perhaps because Lord Klar has been gone for a long time, but he can still honour his blood oath by serving me. According to him, the huge Beastbane hunter he slew was a favourite of his father, so he expects retribution in some form or another.” I chuckle. “I guess he hopes beyond hope I can stand between him and his father.”

“You are not a warrior who can protect him.” She rises and slams her keen-edged steel sword in its fine leather sheath.

“If this depended on warriors, I could hire as many mercenaries as our harvest could afford, turn my huntresses into an army of archers, and strike a first blow. But open war would draw in the other Clan Heads. Something I believe neither he nor I want. Because when we weaken each other enough, the other Clan Heads will be eager to turn on us.”

“Then there is no way of winning?”

I cock an eyebrow at her companion, part surprised she spoke, let alone asked a question.

“Clan Head Jarlgren attacks and tries to slay Lord Klar’s wives quietly. This tactic, he believes, will weaken us, and then, I think, he will make an approach to negotiate from a position of strength. He certainly doesn’t like the fact we have made huntresses from what he considers useless females, but I don’t know where that fits in. Like you say, I am no warrior. His mistake is he believes all of Lord Klar’s wives need weapons to be counted as a threat.”

They share a glance and then open their mouths to speak. They grunt but say nothing else.

I push on. “Why did I choose you two? Pay for the best armour I could buy. Best weapons?”

They share another glance, and the first replies, “To protect you.”

“More than that. I selected you two because you are sisters. Of Lord Klar’s huntresses, you kept to yourselves but did what you were told to do without objection or shirking. I had Voria train you in secret. Ordered you to bait a couple of visitors of some combat reputation into a fight to establish yourselves as quality warriors. With your huntress instincts, I deemed you good enough to be my bodyguards. You only have one job to do. What is it?”

I pause and examine their faces.

“But those fights were close, fortunate, some would say. A sword broke while parrying my blade. My sister’s armour turned away a lethal thrust. When one of them disarmed me, I was so humiliated anger rose within me, and I charged him, stabbing him in the eye with the point on my helm. Everyone laughed at me.” Her bottom lip quivers.

“I prefer to say you found a way to win and, more importantly, survive.”

“Yes, Chief Scribe,” they reply in unison. Then, the second scuffs her boot and looks up. “Remain loyal and trust in you,” she whispers.

I smile warmly. As I take the first step, they fall in beside me, and as one, we stroll towards the village proper to begin my rounds. As we exit the motte, a burly stranger hastens towards us, clearly targeting me. One of my two bodyguards shifts to stand between us while the second hangs back in case this is a feint.

He halts, doffs his cap and speaks while wringing the thing between his hands. “They say you are in charge. Is that right?”

I know him and resist the urge to spit on him. I am sure he doesn’t recognise the now well-fed, neatly dressed, no longer lame former slave of his Clan.

“Lord Klar entrusts me to speak on his behalf. Is that good enough?”

His head bobs three times, and his eyes scan about. “Mistress, we need grain. Clan Ironmonger can pay.”

“What would Lord Torngul say? Aren’t all trades to be done in Hobgoblin Town?” The last thing we need is to upset Lord Torngul. Worse, because of Lord Klar and Lord Torngul’s unusual arrangement, we can’t make Lord Torngul act anything less than Lordly with one of his underlings.

He thrusts forward a parchment. Before I take a step, my bodyguard accepts and hands the page off to me.

I raise an eyebrow. “You know what this says?”

He bobs his head again, leans forward, and whispers, “Clan Ironmonger is loyal.”

I doubt I would have heard his words, except I had refined my hearing utilising Lord Klar’s seed long ago. “It reads that you agree to cart your tools here and return with the grain. How? Wouldn’t The Runner Clan be upset?”

He straightens. “We have our own carts. Not as large as theirs, but good enough to cart our tools and ores to Hobgoblin Town when we need to.”

“And the other part?”

His face flushes green. “Not such a blessing, I must confess. They are a troublesome family, truth to tell. Good at their craft, though, for all that.”

“They agreed to craft tools here. Not Hobgoblin Town? Not with your Clan. Why?”

His eyes dart about. “We hear rumours.” His fingers torture his cap. “Clan Beastbane has been crowing about certain mischief. One of this family’s daughters, for instance. Our Clan are miners and craftsmen. Good enough to defend our lands, but not good enough to kidnap back a daughter from a clan of hunters. So, they hope he will think to rescue her when they prove their value and are accepted under Lord Klar’s protection.”

“Can’t Lord Torngul act?”

“To return one daughter to a clan? An insignificant female?”

I step forward and grab him by his shirt. His eyes widen. Even I am surprised by my strength, and I draw his face down to mine. “How insignificant?”

“She is wistful. A dreamer.”

I twist his shirt. “Explain more.”

“She chooses some ores and stones. She makes pretty things with them. Some call them useless, and some suggest they could have value. Anyway, she is pretty herself to some of the Clan. A hunter took an interest.” His attempt to shrug fails.

“No ordinary hunter, I assume.” My voice deepens.

Colour drains from his face. “A son of Clan Head Jarlgren.”

“Tell this family we can’t promise, and you have yourself a deal.”

His body comes alive, and I thought he might break into dance, but somehow, even he knows he can’t. I release my grip, and with energy in every stride, he leaves.

My bodyguards and I continue into the village proper. I notice them exchange several glances.

“Ask if you want to?”

“We wondered why you agreed. Don’t we have enough obligations?”

“Bait.”

“Chief Scribe?”

“Given a son of Clan Head Jarlgren kidnapped her if taken from him, I assume he may try to get her back.”

“We capture him?”

“Possibly. Possibly not,” I say with a touch of mystery as we approach the first of our renters.

---Clan Head Jarlgren POV

At long last, their armour and weapons hang before me. The room is of sufficient size and has empty walls to host more trophy sets, of course. I draw the lantern closer to examine Zergoa’s display first. Each piece of armour is whole, if somewhat well-worn. All her blades are steel, and the bow has layered wood and bone in the upper and lower limbs. Master craftsmanship. The first prize of many. Lord Klar has several wives and concubines, and I will harvest them all. For the greater good, of course, and co-incidentally, greater compensation. With him weak, I will only need to encourage the other Clan Heads of the opportunity…

I expect Thalgrin, the giant brute, to return with Duzsia’s armour after he slaughters the pretender. She will be the prize of my collection, even if not slain by my Clan. Everybody else believes her to be Duzsia, which will be satisfactory for my purposes.

A stroll a couple of steps to the right and stand before the armour of the one they called Izga. She, I thought, would be the most difficult. Any Clan spawn of Sakvorpa is never to be underestimated.

The holes in her armour from the spears are regrettable, yet you can’t knock success. Armour and weapons hang out in perfect symmetry, yet…

“Durgren!” I shout.

I hear others shout his name and then his hasty footfalls.

“Yes, father?”

“Tell me, what is wrong with this trophy display?” I wave my hand at the wall.

He squints. “All the pieces she wore are as you see them…”

I point at one object.

“Her dagger and its sheath…” he mumbles. “A reserve, perhaps?”

“Look at her other daggers. What do you see?”

He steps closer. His eyes rove over each piece. I am confident this exaggeration of scrutiny is to convince me he is being genuine, yet the issue is more straightforward than that.

“Fine blades, more like slaughtering knives, different sizes, matched pairs…” His breathing stops, and his eyes dart towards mine. “There is a single dagger, modest cross-guard. A warrior’s weapon. Out of place.”

I slap the back of his head. “You were skilful in the hunt, so perhaps I should be grateful for that. Now leave me.”

I unhook the sheathed dagger and hang it on another wall. This piece, I deduce, belongs to a different wife. Why would Izga carry this? She could have simply picked it up, but the craftsmanship is too grand for a casual find.

“Would you have a matching dagger or a matching sword?” I ask my trophy. Should I ask the midwife to nose about it? She is my extraordinary spy, and the answer I am looking for is purely to satisfy my curiosity. I can’t risk her. I can’t.

Time to attend to business. At the door, I look back. Two complete sets, a third on the way and a lone dagger on the wall that now shouts at me. I growl, leave the trophy room, and reach my desk.

Removing the hidden panel, I retrieved the many reports about his wives and concubines. His pack. What or who have I missed?

---

The knock on my door rouses me, and I grab the stuck-on page off my cheek as I straighten in my chair.

“Enter.”

The door opens, and a female enters, although she stays as far away as possible. Bad news then…

Her bottom lip quivers. “Clan Head, Thalgrin and the four that hunted with him are overdue. Morgren… He has left to investigate.”

I sigh. What makes Morgren believe he can succeed where Thalgrin fails? He is best to stick with kidnapping females from other clans.

“Send Vormgren to me.” I wave her away, and she scampers off. Again, I must call on the younger to save the older.

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.