(Book One Complete!) Friendly Neighbourhood Goblin (Mercenary Company LitRPG)

The wind grew fierce near the top of the hill, blowing away the misty layer like dust off an old tome. Stump might have tumbled if it wasn't for the thickening traffic around them.

"Stonegrave's one o' three great hills o' Grimsgate," said Morg, as they followed the steep jagged road. "Y'ever need fightin' men, here's where ye wanna look for 'em. Oh…" he stopped abruptly and looked at Stump through the mask concealing his sunlight sensitive skin. "Ye might want to watch yer belongin's up here."

Rocky terraces forked off their path further up the hillside, where thick stalks of ironmalt stood sturdy against the gust and expelled their musty mineral scent. Burly cultivators tended to the sporegrain with hands calloused from growing the tough crop, and ignored the marketplace clamour sounding above, where spires of stone and largely intact walls crowned the peak.

Stump and Morg reached the hilltop and ducked through a narrow glowcap-ringed arch, and were met with a hundred eyes and grasping hands.

Merchants beckoned behind fungal lit stalls and sprawled rugs of trinkets, each of them competing with the loudest voices and wildest gestures. Chapped and grimy hands cupped in begging-bowl fashion jutted out of corners, urging Stump to curl his fingers over his pouches. More voices came from the shattered remnants of a second floor bridged by rickety boards of wood.

"Betting open! Betting open for round four!" someone called from behind a stone slab swarmed by a dozen tall men and beastfolk engaged in a fierce struggle of elbows and ever increasing declarations of numbers. "Rikkaza of the Four Fists on one end, and Tomysis Silvervein on the other. One copper minimum! Place your bets!"

"Get your grimknots here! Spiced or pickled! Get your grimknots!" yelled someone else from a stall equally as swarmed. "Goldpops for the children, five a penny!"

"There's a lot of people," Stump observed, tensing at the threat of the bloodlust.

He still hadn't explored much of the Downs during his stay at the inn, but if he wanted his company to be a part of it, to protect it, he needed to immerse himself in its locations and its people, but the thought was overwhelming. The anger and anxiety flowed through him, and he breathed deep to allow it passage, borrowing its power to steel himself against his fear of the crowd.

He wished Yeza could see how he was learning to tame the bloodlust.

"Aye, biggest ruins above ground," said Morg, forcefully shouldering a narrow path ahead.

Stump grabbed the dwarf's belt to avoid being swept away. "Above ground?"

Islands of partially unearthed stone separated by seas of dirt made up much of the market floor, and each of those tiles gleamed with the promise they had once been beautiful. The letters of a forgotten language spiralled around carved mosaics, knitting a grander narrative between stones like scattered fabrics of a quilt.

Morg thumped his boot on one of them. "All the Martial classes look to make their trade in the fightin' pits," he said. "Yer about to see the biggest ruins below ground."

He led them to a small space. It was a rectangular wooden platform wedged between crumbling walls. In one corner a sullen ratfolk sat on a stool, grimknot crumbs at his feet and a bucket by his side. His hand wrapped lazily around a lever.

Morg tossed a copper into the bucket, then moved to the middle of the platform, turned to face the way they entered, and stood expectantly.

Stump followed his lead, but after a few moments he leaned into the dwarf's waist. "What are we doing?" he whispered.

"Waitin'. You'll see," said the dwarf, with the obnoxious sideways glare of someone with secret knowledge and no desire to part with it.

Six more stepped onto the platform, tossed their coins into the bucket, and assumed similarly patient stances, all of them facing the same direction.

The ratfolk stirred with a yawn. "Hands by your sides. No pushing, no shoving, no spitting or shouting over the edge," he droned.

An armed figure stepped in front of the platform and dragged a withered gate between the walls, denying anyone else entry. He held up a hand to another four who had been rushing over, and ignored their exasperated groans.

Stump gazed nervously at Morg, who had lifted his mask and was smiling.

The lever cranked, and a rumble sounded deep below their feet. Stump snarled and spread his legs, arms wide, ears up. Morg fought to suppress an amused chuckle. The ratfolk watched the goblin suspiciously from the corner.

After an awkward cough and no motions of alarm from the others, Stump straightened, flattened his tunic, and felt his cheeks warm with embarrassment.

The platform shuddered, creaked, whined, and then the walls and gate were moving upwards.

No, we're moving down.

Darkness lingered. Groaning wood echoed amidst the rhythmic clink of chains. A dim glow cut through cracks between Stump's feet, and as the platform squeezed out of the cavernous walls, light spilled over the sides.

Torches. Braziers. Colonies of mushrooms glowing purple and pink in stony fissures. The cave was huge, but light bathed its most distant corners, and great pillars of stone threw massive shadows from end to end.

Steel clanged, drawing whistles and cheers. Stump gulped and peered over the edge of the platform to spy a raised stadium of stone, where two figures danced beneath towering fungal beds of light. Their blades met again and spectators leapt from their seats with raised fists and warlike applause.

Around it Stonegrave burst out of the cavernous floor like stalagmites chiseled into the shape of a city. It was carved out of the walls and ancient fungal boulders, and was locked in an endless war of attrition with the cave it was built from. Pockets of glowing mushrooms lined cracked and broken streets, the roots of trees strangled pillars, and rushing streams carrying glittering spores of mossbark branched into smaller currents that ended in stagnant pools or meandered out the other side of the hill.

"Impressive, eh?" said Morg.

Stump steadied himself against the dwarf when the platform thudded to a stop against a large flat-topped rock.

"Please descend in an orderly fashion after you've thanked your lift operator," the ratfolk mumbled with drooping eyes. "Have a nice day in Stonegrave."

A great wheel behind the platform had stopped turning, and the beast inside collapsed in a grumbling heap. Fire and smoke flared on its breath, illuminating the red fur along its muscled body. It scratched idly beneath the black horns curving out of its skull.

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Someone nearby tossed a goblin-sized chunk of meat in the air. "Good job, Gorthy," they said.

The beast caught it in its jaws and swallowed in two bites, then curled up in a furry ball. Stones shook at its purring.

"What's that?" said Stump, as he and Morg descended a rocky staircase beneath the rooftops of Stonegrave.

"A gorthal," said Morg. "They roam closer to where Thermanus died near Nevae, from what I know. Some monster hunter managed to catch 'n tame one. Don't know how. Them things have been known to tear through places like this in little more'n a day."

Before Stump could process the lift ride or the huge fire beast that powered it, more oddities staggered into view. At first he thought he found a goblin, but when he neared the creature tending its mushroom garden, it turned and revealed ashen grey skin and white eyes.

A tall, thin being with purple scales and bony fins protruding from its skull was sweeping a curve in the road, and farther down a woman who looked to be made of stone drew a rake down a lichen-infested wall, catching sheets of mossbark in a barrel. She paused to watch the strolling dwarf and goblin. Cracks in her skin glowed green.

"Whatever worlds they come from," said Morg, noting Stump's bafflement, "even twilight's too much for 'em. Stonegrave's their home, now."

Stump braced for an angry reply to his next question. "Did you ever think about living here?"

To his surprise, Morg chuckled. "Couple o' times. Once they get rid o' the funky swill they brew and start takin' in some real drinks I might try again."

Out of tunnels carved into the base of the stadium flowed more recognizable faces—humans, dwarves, orcs, and catfolk. Most of them were armed and armoured, and many were battered or in boastful conversation about the people they had battered. Others wept or rejoiced about the weight of their purses.

Inside was its own ecosystem of winding caves. Morg moved confidently through them, and before long Stump found himself in a dim chamber of hot baths and relaxing fighters. Somewhere the bellows hissed and clouds of steam curled under the low-vaulted ceiling. Bare feet padded on steam-glazed stone.

Morg stood awkwardly near the entrance. He took off his mask and wiped the sweat glistening on his forehead. "Could start here," he said. "Most o' the poachers find 'em in the trainin' rooms. This I figure gives us a leg up."

The raised crescent baths were carved out of the walls, with a single path leading between them. They decided to split up and take a side each.

"The Nobodies?" said an orc with a shaved head except for a long black ponytail. He sat up to his chest in the water and was squinting at the badge, using a nearby patch of glowcaps for light. "What kind of name is that?"

He thrusted the item back into Stump's hands.

"Its a… well," Stump fumbled. I need to come up with an easy line to describe it, he thought. "We help the people of the Downs."

"You and every other comp'ny around. What's the rate?"

Stump had untied his scarf and dabbed it against the steam clinging to his skin. "What would you like your rate to be?"

The orc shrugged impatiently. "Last month I made two silvers a week," he said. "Can you top that?"

"We have a job coming up that'll pay fifteen over the course of a week."

That shot the orc's eyebrows up. "Yeah? Recurring?"

"One time. But there'll be more."

The orc sighed through his tusks. "Three silver a week if I keep up my winnings, they tell me. Beyond that? Maybe four or five. I'll pass on your little comp'ny."

Two baths down was a human nursing a severe bruise on his ribs. His feet were in the water, his pants rolled up to his knees. Whatever curiosity stirred in his eyes at Stump's approach vanished when he saw the badge. He waved Stump away before a single word was uttered.

Julis was a catfolk who hated the water but lounged on the benches with a towel over his face to absorb the heat. He listened to Stump's proposal, but explained he was already contracted to work with Gutter's Bounty for the next several weeks.

Taken. Pass. Pass. Taken. Across the way the grumbling of Morg trailed off as the dwarf moved from tub to tub, and was turned away at every one. Stump spoke to Fighters, Swashbucklers, and Pugilists, but all waved him off.

He was nearing the end of the bathhouse when he spotted a sword leaning on stone. Next to it, with her arms over the side of the tub and her head hung back, eyes closed, was an orc.

"Boragu," said Stump, surprised.

She turned her head abruptly. "Stump?" She pushed away and crossed her hands over her chest and sank deeper in the water. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm so glad you're alright!" he said, approaching. "I wasn't sure… I saw…" his ears dipped. "I saw what happened. I'm sorry."

Her jaw clenched. "Sorry for what?" she spat. "For ruining my father's dreams? For destroying our home?"

"I didn't think—"

"That's right. You didn't think." Boragu looked away, her eyes searching the water. "We didn't think, either. The Ocelots… we should have known. Everything's gone."

Stump's throat was tight. "I really am sorry. I know that doesn't mean anything, but I am. I was the one who came up with the idea. It was my fault."

She watched him from the corner of her eye.

"It was stupid. I was stupid. I should have thought about… and… I don't know. I should have found another way to help," he went on.

Boragu gave a reluctant nod to the apology and relaxed her shoulders against the other side of the bath. "It doesn't matter. Our inn was on its last legs. Another month and we were gone, fire or no fire, even with that night with the Jailburn," she said, then added hesitantly, "And… it was a good night."

Stump's ears twitched. "Really?"

She gave in to a half-smile. "You should have seen my father, just sitting there, listening and smiling at all the voices."

"I remember him saying so. He must have been happy."

"He looked like a madman wandered in off the street."

They shared a laugh.

Boragu caught herself, forced a frown, and cleared her throat. "I don't have that book I promised you. The Greenskin Knight. It burned in the fire. My father wants to look for another bookshop, but… I don't know if we'll find one."

Stump shook his head. "I'm just glad you're alright. Your father, too."

"My father's fine. More than fine. Always a new chapter, he says," she said with an eye roll. "We'll find something else once I've made enough glimmer in the pits. Hogg's Hollow, maybe. Or Brinetown. He likes the sea."

"What about becoming a mercenary?"

She considered it with a tilt of the head. "We had this book called… Tales of the Penny Prince, or… The Penny Prince's Gold? It had an orc girl in it, like me. And she meets this other orc from another clan who runs his own company. He's a competitor at first, because she starts her own, and they don't like each other, but then…"

Boragu paused mid sentence, seeming to remember where she was. "It's just a story. It went up with the inn, anyway." She waved her hand dismissively, then hissed in pain and clutched her elbow.

Stump rushed over, but awkwardness kept him from getting too close. "Did you fight in the pit today?" he said.

She grimaced the pain away and submerged her wound. "Not the big one. Haven't been able to make it, yet. I'm still a Host, and I won't be able to change my class until I can open up a focus in Expert Weapons, and that won't happen for another two levels. For now it's just me and Inkwraith against the real Martial classes."

"Inkwraith?" said Stump. He looked at the sword. "You renamed it."

She shrugged weakly. "Bonesapper was my father's, not mine. With the inn gone I thought it might be fitting. I read almost every one of those books we had, and now they're all gone. Ash. But I still remember them. Even if I can't tell you the words, I remember. They're in me, and I guess that means they're in my sword, too. If I ever learn how to use it."

"You will. I know it," said Stump. He placed his badge on the bathtub ledge.

She gave it a curious look but made no move to grab it. "What is that?"

"The badge of the Nobodies. My company. We're looking for another member. Someone who wants to fight."

She glanced at him, and a brew of surprise and reluctance drew a stuttered reply. "Stump, I… I'm not a fighter. I have a sword, but… I've been losing nearly every fight. I haven't made more than four copper."

He shrugged. "I've never won a fight."

"You have magic."

Stump curled his fingers over the ledge. "Join my company. We have a quest coming up that'll pay really well, and then we're going to use that glimmer to help the people of the Downs who need it the most. The hundreds with quests who've been turned away by the other companies. Or the people who've been hurt by the Midnight Ocelots. You and Borag can use it to buy another place to live. Or a new inn, or more books. Please. I owe you that much."

A hint of longing glistened in her eyes, but she blinked it away. She picked up the badge and handed it to him. "Not like this," she said. "I can't join just because you feel guilty."

"That's not why—"

She pressed the insignia to his chest. "I need to make my own way for me and my father. I've seen what happens to companies that get too big. I know they will come looking for you eventually, and I don't think I'm ready to be there again. Not after…"

She choked on grief and lowered her gaze.

Stump reluctantly accepted the badge, and gently wrapped his fingers around her hand. "I understand," he said softly.

"But…" she began, wiping her eyes. "Maybe someday I will be ready."

He smiled and looked down at the insignia, one of five he'd bought for the future core members of his company, and remembered her parting words after he'd left Dusty Taps for the last time.

"I'll set it aside for you," he promised.

Maybe it was the steam settling around them or the tenderness of his voice, but her eyes glistened. She squeezed his hand. "One day," she said, and blinked a burning orcish anger back into her irises. "And I'll have Inkwraith at my side."