Knife in my free hand I cut her loose from the line and drag the diminutive humanoid to the middle of the stream. The initial shock of my action wears off and she strives to speak. Under my unrelenting grip, her open mouth face plunges into the cool flowing water of the stream, bound arms and legs struggle against the bindings with no chance of freedom or prospect of changing her fate. I am exercising my strength without restraint and feel a heady sense of domination bordering on pleasure without consequence – this life under my control is mine to judge. All the captives take a sharp intake of breath. Their response, applause to my performance, and endorsement confirming I am Hobgoblin.

I wanted a rebellious one. A justification for my planned brutality. My humanness wouldn’t allow viciousness without a good reason due to a haunting inner voice advocating measured response. The word good in my last thought seems out of place when I intend to do a bad or simply uncivilised thing, odd really. She provides the opportunity, unaware I am waiting to pounce, reconciling my human criteria to act and thereby unleash a purely Hobgoblin display of short sharp violence as punishment for a borderline example of insubordination – a petty disrespectful quip.

Staring at the line of captives, my pointed teeth show behind my smiling lips as the bundle of legs and arms cease any movement, a signal her struggle is over, and ruthlessness complete I stand, releasing my grip as I do. The water washes over, around and about the limp corpse shifting and nudging her limbs. In turn, my eyes focus upon each in the line, and they surrender to my intimidation and the implied threat of death I hold over each one becomes real in that locked moment. I am Hobgoblin, their worthless lives are at my disposal and the water flow eddying around their loins is unable to wash away the stinking flood of body temperature urine.

With a sense of satisfaction, I crouch down, slice the wet binding ropes, and grabbing the corpse by an arm drag the body to the bank of the stream in one fluid motion. I begin my illusion of spirit stealing by laying her body on the side to ensure any water can dribble free and then tip her over on her back and begin the kissing and chest pressing ritual. My delay for show possibly fatal as I continue the procedure longer than any of my other successes. The rib injury a limiting factor, the delay after drowning another and her own fight to live all considerations in this gamble.

The line observes without tears, they believe her dead and are more curious about my actions and what I am now doing to the corpse. Why? Could this be a further terror I perform after death?

A cough. I roll her on her side. A wet cough and dribble of water. Eyes in a daze until the realisation I hover above her like a bird of prey, then her head snaps back trying to escape. Climbing to my feet, I use my foot to push her down. Arms and legs free and yet she lay still like a corpse of stone, unable to move under my gaze.

“She lives …”

Each in the line murmurs those words or similar, I don’t catch them all. My eyes are trying to see through her, burn into number six’s soul.

“When the stream slew you by drowning, I captured your spirit fleeing your body while trying to escape into the water desiring to join your ancestors. I then breathed life back into your corpse using your spirit.” I enjoy the struggle of comprehension on her face. “Know your spirit remains within me and upon my death, your spirit will be destroyed. Now go.”

My words elicit a frowning response.

“Run Zoria,” shouts number four.

“Zoria is it? Follow your friend’s advice, you are free as long as you don’t harm any of my wives as you leave.”

Wincing, she crawls further up the bank and then using a sapling as support, hand over hand, stands. Her head is slow to turn upstream and then downstream.

“A darkness then nothing …” she croaks.

“Your death, release of your spirit,” I answer while wadding back and grabbing the rope tethering the line of captives to lead them after my busy wives.

Staying on the bank Zoria shadows our progress upstream. Duzsia visits now and again to deposit armour and clothes with the line, while Rexa drapes multiple belts with sheathed weapons across her own body, strung bows over a left shoulder.

“Why do you free me,” Zoria shouts, after a time.

Duzsia, quicker than me replies, “To slay him is to slay yourself, so you offer him no threat unless you wish to die.”

“I will return with many others and they will slay him …”

Duzsia bellows in laughter almost doubling up.

“Why do you laugh?”

“Upon his death, you fool, no matter the cause. You forget he also holds our spirits, and we would sacrifice our lives to save his as he has promised upon our deaths to return our spirits so we can join our ancestors.”

A pleasing development, my wife speaks with such utter conviction and authority she silences any further response from Zoria. My wife a true believer and therefore happy to play the advocate proclaiming a falsehood as truth. How can the many saying the same thing be wrong – a few more wives declaring the same and I will be able to state the fantastic and all will believe.

We near the trail and hereabouts the forest is heavier, so the stream narrows and the rushing water carves out steep banks on both sides. To continue with us Zoria steps closer than ever before. I grab a bow and a knife belt from Duzsia, approach Zoria and offer the weapons. She falls back and I leave them hanging in a tree by the stream shaking my head.

Once upon the trail, a gaggle of farmer goblins and my wives sent to fetch them greet us.

“We politely asked some of them to strip the bodies of the goblins we found and carry their belongings to the Farm and then return husband,” declares Koria in a report like way.

I wrap both Koria and Luda in an embrace and while still in my arms I address the farmers. “Take the weapons, armour and clothes and carry them to the Farm. Also, there are four corpses along the stream, four of you retrieve them and carry them to the farm as well, we will feed our enemies to the sows and the young boarlings.”

Both my wives shift under my embrace, the farmers begin a plea, waving their arms while the words they wish to speak fly before they can.

“They don’t deserve burial or a pyre, they will waste out here or feed wild animals, better their corpses benefit us, now go!” My last two words a definite command and the farmers scramble into action.

“Twelve bodies, sets of armour, clothes, eleven bows and eleven belts,” Milga calls out after them, a reminder of the tally.

With two wives hanging off each arm and Milga dragging the line of captives behind we must look an odd parade sauntering in triumph down the game trail. The long grass greets us as the sun sets low in the West.

“The stupid reject still follows,” states Milga.

“I am not so distracted by my wives I didn’t notice,” I retort, finishing with a smirk. “I set her free, gave her weapons what more can I do?”

“Do you mind if I chat to her?”

I chuckle and reach to grab the lead rope Milga offers me. Second thoughts I wave the offer away. The eyes of all, my wives and those tethered to the line follow as I leave their company to confront our shadow.

Bearing an eerie resemblance to a skittish animal, Zoria backpedals in response to my advance.

“Talk. If I wanted to slay you it would be done by now,” I shout.

Zoria holds her ground allowing me to close the distance until the former number six holds up a palm. Shrugging, I face off with the unsuccessful kidnapper.

“You are free, why do you follow?”

“Why do they follow a bestial Hob such as you?”

Our conversation is clear, I am certain our words carry well on a light breeze to an audience now in total silence, hanging on every word. ‘Bestial Hob’ though, can I defend my reputation? Do I want to, or is my preference to grow into the beast of all beasts? Can I compete with the Hunter Hob’s discarding of goblins during his hunts for example? Does my slaughter of the betrayers on the Farm measure up or would that fall under justified response? My human self I don’t believe could assess my action as a measured response, yet my Hobgoblin nature dismisses any such reservations. Conceivably the hurt of betrayal the catalyst, lowering my human standard and permitting the atrocity. The one before me knows none of that, she judges only on current events.

“Aren’t all Hobs bestial? You followed or partnered with a Ranger Hob did you not?”

Zoria takes a few moments before replying, “Assignment … the Chief Hob visits the goblin tribes and offers payments for assistance. I have been requested several times …”

“What payments?”

I hunt for information with questions, I need to learn more of those and their arrangements beyond this valley.

“My armour, my knives … which I don’t have, you return to me the knives and a bow of others and your wife wears my armour.” The bitter twang to her voice as she speaks unrelenting like listing her grievances.

“If I return your armour, knives, and bow, will you leave?”

“You wouldn’t …”

Waving away her assumption, I swivel about and stride back to my wives.

“Rexa, remove the armour and find the best quality pair of knives and bow.”

There is a pause as my wife obediently removes the superb armour and Duzsia shuffles through the weapons.

“I will escort you, Lord,” announces Milga.

There is a determination in her words and visage. I shrug, armour and weapons in hand I about-face and now in the company of Milga return to the meeting spot, soon offering the cuir-bouilli leather armour, a pair of sheathed knives and strung bow to Zoria taking back the weapons I originally gifted. As Zoria straps on her armour, I turn away leaving Milga to watch. Her insistence to escort me, odd, probably due to suspicions, something only goblins understand I reason.

“Wait,” calls Zoria.

My inner laughter almost surfaces. Collecting myself, a look over my shoulder reveals a deep frown dominating the former kidnapper’s face.

“We are done, you have what you asked for. You can leave.”

Milga adds, “Your life is now his, walk, run and hunt knowing your spirit will never return to your ancestors upon death.”

I slowly turnabout and witness Zoria’s eyes fall upon my escort.

“You seek to scare me off, are you afraid I am too much competition for you? Is that why you want me gone? His reaction expected, uncaring as Hobs are.” A snap of leather punctuates her words as a greave now covers her shin.

Milga takes several steps forward until standing over Zoria, still on one knee tying on her second greave.

“I am Milga Stone Blood. I fear no competition. My Lord Hob wishes you gone, so much so he made his wife return your armour.”

Climbing to her feet Zoria meets Milga face to face, their almost human length green noses a couple of finger widths apart.

“Did he grant you your name and now you are beholden to him,” sneers Zoria.

I witness Milga’s shoulders gather lifting her frame until able to look down upon Zoria. I suspect Zoria unable to counter due to her rib injury.

“My tribe’s elders granted my name. I serve him for other reasons. He can take your spirit because he has been slain and returned to life. He is powerful because he doesn’t mistreat goblins like other Hobs yet deals with enemies and betrayal swiftly. Half of the goblins on his farm he slew upon discovering their betrayal. Your allegiance would always be in doubt, you would always be the first blamed, guilty, guilty, guilty.” Milga’s fingers stab Zoria’s chest three times. “Go back to your tribe, this valley holds no future for you.”

“Name or no name you can’t decide.” She flicks her head towards me. “Only he can.”

With that said she steps around Milga or attempts to. Milga bumps the other with her body, checking any forward progress.

“Out of my way, bitch.”

Milga sneers, “I am not the one with the sore rib.” A quick on target rabbit punch and armour or not Zoria’s face grimaces while sucking in a breath to endure the pain.

Through grating teeth, Zoria asks, “Why do you stand in my way?”

Milga’s retort quick, to the point and demeaning. “You have lost your spirit to him, so can only be his wife and his bed is full of better.”

To me, they could be twins, same height, same length noses, the hue of green skin, identical … more though, their confronting natures an impasse of wills. And yet I need to school my face from surprise as Zoria takes a step back. Retreat?

Her eyes seek mine.

“Return my spirit so I am no longer wife fodder. I wish to serve as she serves, under any oath or binding you require, and I will prove my loyalty and worth.”

I join Milga and place a hand on her shoulder. “Milga and I have an understanding, which breeds absolute trust between us. You, unfortunately, have nothing beyond the loss of your spirit to bargain and would forever fall under suspicion.”

My hand grabs at Milga’s shoulder and I guide her away as we return to my wives and the line.

“I know I will need to prove my loyalty. Ask anything of me.”

I laugh false and loud and without looking back I then ask, “Kill yourself, I would be more impressed with a knife in the gut, long and slow, but I am sympathetic to your offer, therefore the heart is acceptable.”

She screams, “What?”

“I am not partial to stupid servants, so I am already reconsidering my offer …” I shake my head, the exaggeration of which isn’t lost upon my wives who giggle in response.

Her armour flops to the ground, the long, lush grass cushioning the fall.

The fingers of my wives point to a location behind me, their eyes wide.

A chilling scream of pain emanates from behind me as I grab the rope tethering the line. Milga tries to speak and doesn’t. Simple as that. My wives sneak glances, yet I am certain there is nothing to see, the long grass would conceal the target of their curiosity. I decide I am not drawn to theatrics.

As we crest a low rolling hill the Farm buildings come into view, the surrounding fields yet to sprout into green, although early shoots rise proud and with them the promise of future life.

“You grow food?”

Number four speaks and attracts my notice, yet her eyes betray the gaff, wide, full of fear. All afternoon none from the line of captives have spoken. I hand off the line to Milga and drop back until in line with number four. Under my casual gaze, I notice a bead of sweat breaking out upon her brow.

“Yes, we hunt for now and eat from modest stores from last season, this season though should be bountiful.”

Her release of breath amuses me.

“Am I permitted to speak Lord Hob?”

I chuckle and cast my eyes forward. “You have done so twice already … no point stopping now.”

“What do you intend to do with us?”

I walk on in silence for a time, humming. Her nervous question causing the others in the line to wake from their imagined dooms, eager to learn if death awaits or worse, slow death. How soon they have forgotten my promise to them on the trail ... isn’t my Hobgoblin’s word to be trusted?

“All must earn their keep on the farm, what do you have to offer in exchange for living another day?”

“I can act, play any role, ask those in the line, none knew.”

I try a predatory smile, a show of teeth certainly. “Perhaps you are doing so now? Meek and inoffensive and when the time is right and you are granted a whiff of trust, you spring forth like an assassin.”

“No, no Lord Hob, Zoria, what you speak of is Zoria’s role. Killer, punisher and accomplished hunter of runaways, her tracking skills the best in our valley, acknowledged by all. I am not a fighter … there is …” She bites her lips.

“There is?”

“A ransom … a generous ransom Lord Hob for my safe return.”

I humph. “What you may think is generous may not agree with my expectation and how would the exchange happen and me or my agent escape with our lives. Ridiculous.”

“No Lord Hob, the exchange is time-honoured, each tribe swears to a truce during a ransom as life is more important than wealth.”

Honour among bandits then? “What of the Ranger Hob, did he carry a ransom?”

No immediate answer so I glance sideways catching sight of her head shaking side to side.

“Why not him? Didn’t he think he would ever face defeat?”

“The Hobs in our valley stay together, they believe our ways foolish … the saving of goblin life … pointless.”

The tribes, in this valley and it would seem beyond, hold on to the importance of life in total contrast to the Hobgoblins. This explains why my behaviour is unusual, although a begrudging acceptance I can treat enemies and betrayers any way, well let’s be honest, any Hobgoblin way I want to, without diminishing their loyalty to me. They gain an assurance I won’t just decide in the spur of a moment to slay them, doing so only if I have a reason, which seems to be my unique difference, my humanness factor.

“You would not try and escape if I agreed to accept your ransom and my agent who delivers you wouldn’t, in turn, be slain or captured?”

“No Lord. Often the goblin being ransomed isn’t bound, because once the ransom is agreed the life protection of the one to be ransomed becomes the responsibility of the escort and this is easier if both can run.”

I have doubts – human-level doubts, let alone Hobgoblin level doubts. The captor and captive cooperating? There must be conditions I suppose otherwise tribes would be forever kidnapping ransom targets.