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

Griza almost looked peaceful while she slept. White goblin locks dangled over her eyelids, her chest heaved rhythmically beneath the ropes confining her, and as the inn quieted after lunch, Stump could hear tiny, stuttered snores.

"Tried to kill ye, eh?" said Morg. He'd approached the bed and bent low in his examination, like he was discerning the value of a sack of onions.

"For the second time. Reema saved me." Stump spoke softly in the doorway, not wanting to wake her.

Griza's struggle throughout their trek back through Grimsgate drew a few curious stares, but no one made to intervene. It wasn't the strangest sight the people of the Downs had seen. She'd spent most of her vigour by the time they were halfway down the road to the Knight Inn, and passed out as quickly as her ear hit the pillow.

"And she was sayin' what about yer old friend? He's from Shekago?"

"Not exactly. I'm not really sure, she was rambling. But she knows more than I do about our old tribe, and Thrung. Maybe she can tell us about his tactics."

"Or she'll try 'n kill y'again next chance she gets."

Stump shrugged. "She's exiled, too. Maybe I can wear her down into helping us."

"Ye do have a talent for it, to be sure."

"Thanks. I think."

Morg straightened and dug his thumbs into his breeches. "Ye really think it's this Thrung…Fire-Spitter, whatever his name is, that's the one causin' problems for the Valroys?

"If what Griza said is true. And Torrig mentioned they've received reports of more frequent goblin raids."

The dwarf's beard shifted as his lips pursed in thought. "Either way, still makes the two o' us the only combatants, and if this Thrung o' yers comes raidin' the manor with his fire magic, there's not much we can do."

"We have those magic items."

"Aye, the rocks ye can talk to?"

"The other ones, too."

"Ye don't even know what they do."

"No, but…"

Morg stepped forward and placed a huge hand on Stump's shoulder. "I'm not sayin' we shouldn't do this, just lettin' ye know the particulars. It's yer company and yer call, gobby, and I'm with ye all the way."

Stump lowered his head. "Well…" he mused, then looked up at the dwarf's scraggly beard. "Fifteen silver's a lot to pass up."

Morg grinned. "That it is."

Stump nearly toppled over when the dwarf clapped him on the back and swaggered into the hallway.

"We better see what kinda package Reem's got for us," said Morg.

Stump followed him out. "Package?"

"She always puts somethin' together when I'm gone more'n a day."

Put something together she had.

Neither could be sure how Reema and Jin had done it, but they'd managed to wrest a dozen faces from the Downs and sneak them into the Knight Inn without creaking a floorboard.

If it wasn't for Stump behind him, Morg may have slipped on the steps and twisted his neck in fright.

Faces new and old, friendly and stranger, shed their stealthy presence with a cheer, spearing mugs in the air and spilling beer over the brim. Ugg and his crew, seated at their usual crooked table, were the loudest. Their glossy eyes suggested they were already a pint deep. Brass the Penny Pincher was less enthusiastic from his corner, as he only came for Reema's promise of free booze as part of their deal for the lantern. Larea was there, though not with Jeyenne or their son, Stump was sad to see. Elmee had her magic cards scattered on a table, and Mort cawed excitedly from his cage.

"What's all this?" said Stump, catching Reema as she maneuvered between tables with a tray of hushcakes in one hand and a pitcher in the other.

"Openin' day for our new offerings," she said casually, without breaking stride.

Morg perked. "New offerin's?" he said, and swivelled to the bar.

Brightly painted signs hung above the kegs, akin to the massive barrels at the tank, but Stump didn't recognize the names. What used to be Amber Glow had become Goblin's Gold, complete with a recreation of Stump's original painting when he'd named his company Goblin Knight. Sellsword Swill was painted in a ring of blue and silver over what had once been Foglight Ale. Penny Porter had survived the renaming, but its spilled coin purse design inside a ring of red had been swapped out for a newer look—a tankard with bands of colour from base to brim, each one representing the rungs of the mercenary ladder.

"Thought I'd time it with your last day before Peaktree," Reema said, returning with an empty tray. "Stay for a drink before you go?"

Stump and Morg exchanged a glance, hoping the other would make the responsible call.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"One drink?" Stump said, passing the burden.

"Aye. Just one," said Morg, throwing it out the window.

Three drinks later and the dwarf was regaling Ugg with his Seabrace adventure. His flailing arms accentuated the telling and spittle rained on those too drunk to notice, and between their tipsy dwarven back and forth they nearly managed a coherent sentence.

Stump braved a pint of Goblin's Gold and was surprised to find he enjoyed the lightly toasted sweetness. He sat with Larea as the stagfolk hemmed nervously over which of Elmee's cards to choose. The mycolight of the inn dulled the starlight glow on the back of them, dispelling their enchanting mystery.

After Larea overturned the Laughing Door and went pale at Elmee's whispered warnings of a great temptation in his future, Stump shuffled off, grabbed a hushcake and a plate, and slipped upstairs unnoticed.

The door was ajar, creaking softly at the wind rolling through an open window. Dwarven laughter sounded beneath Stump's feet.

Griza stiffened when he entered the room. She was in bed, her back against the wall.

"You're awake," he said, gripping the plate tightly in his nervous shuffle. "I brought you something to eat."

Her yellow eyes were wide with rage, but she said nothing. She was as untrusting as he had been that first morning at the Knight Inn, when he was sitting where she was, bandaged and afraid, and Reema had come to offer him breakfast.

To him she had been a hag. The enemy.

Stump took a tentative step under Griza's hateful glare. His throat was tight when he spoke. "It's called a hushcake. It's very sweet, but I think you'll like it."

She returned a snarl. "You want to kill me but you can't. So you bring poison to hold the blade."

The accusation hit hard. Poison was the weapon of creatures who couldn't fight. It was the defence of slimy toads, the strength of bugs and plants. To compare him to their kind was to reduce him to something less than goblin. Less than a coward, even. He had shed his tribal life some time ago and all their backward beliefs, but the burning desire to prove himself a true greenskin was harder to shake.

He took a small bite of the dessert. It was warm and flaky and drizzled in fungal sweetness. "It's glazed in dripwine," he said, mouth full. "I'm not entirely sure what that is, but it tastes good."

"You're one of them," she said, her voice low but biting. "You were never our kin."

He nearly staggered at her words. She was right, he knew. He was even happy about it. He'd found more comfort in the fabled Shadowlands than he was afforded by his own people, and the Knight Inn was more a home to him than their cave could ever be.

Then why does it hurt?

"I am one of you. I'm a goblin," he countered.

She bristled. "In flesh and blood. Not in spirit."

"The tall men have a better world than we do. They have inns and libraries and all sorts of wondrous things. All we have is a hole in the ground."

"Once, maybe. Our king will take the lands of the tall men for our kind."

"Thrung is no king."

"Fire-Spitter!"

"He's a liar."

"You're a coward!"

His fingers tensed around the plate. Don't fight back, he thought. A battle is what she wants. A battle stirs the bloodlust. He swallowed hard, suppressing the many retorts buzzing around his head, and steeled himself against her barbs. "I'll leave the cake here for you."

Her yellow eyes followed him as he neared the bedside table. "I don't want it," she seethed.

"Then you don't have to eat—"

Dish and dessert clattered as he spun from her lunge. The floor shook with her impact, and Stump's breeches tore where her teeth snapped by his ankle. He kicked her into the wall and darted out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Release me! Cut me free and fight me!" she called over the thumps of her frantic wriggling.

Stump leaned against the frame and waited for the bloodlust to ebb. Once he ensured her jaws hadn't punctured skin, he expelled a breath.

He needed a different strategy to approach her. Stoking her anger would only draw out the worst of her goblin aspects, and he would never learn anything about Thrung that way. Kindness wasn't enough, either. Not for goblins. Strength is what they bowed to. Strength and power. How do I show strength without fighting back?

Her shrieking challenges followed him downstairs.

All heads watched his descent. A number of eyes flicked up to the ceiling and her muffled cursing.

"Everything alright up there?" said Reema, carrying a tray by her side like she might raise it as a shield at a moment's notice.

Stump stopped halfway down the steps. "Trying to make friends," he said, and met the curious gazes of the patrons. "Morg, we should leave for Peaktree."

The dwarf was standing, his arms aloft in storytelling fashion as if suspended by marionette strings. His shoulders slumped at the suggestion. "S'ppose yer right," he said, then threw back what remained of his beer. "I'll finish the rest o' the tale when I'm back, hear?"

"Aye," said Ugg. "Over a pint 'n under a song."

"Over a pint 'n under a song," Morg echoed.

Both dwarves interlocked their fingers and pressed their huge palms together.

Once goodbyes were given to all and the crowd began to thin, Morg fetched Griza from her room and hauled the screaming goblin over a shoulder and out the door, and Stump lingered to sweep away shards of broken plate.

He never found the hushcake.

One adventurer's pack. Two extra sacks of supplies and food prepped by Jin—it might've been three if not for Reema's efficient restraint. Two bedrolls. Five skins of blood-infused beer. They left the inn with twice as much weight as they'd entered, and with Morg shouldering much of the burden, one might suspect he was smuggling a second dwarf on his back.

The two innkeepers came out to see them off.

"You've got a dagger here, in the pouch," said Reema, as she kneeled before Stump, adjusting his collar and wiping dirt off his shoulders. "I snuck a second knife in the other pocket in case you run into danger, though its talents lie with bread, so only use it on creatures that are especially doughy." She shot Griza—who was standing behind him in a tight coil of rope—a wary glance.

"If ya decide to eat the glowfish, you'll want to do it tonight," said Jin. His eyes were alight, and his voice danced with as much passion as an oxfolk could muster. "There's some salt leaves in there for the wrapping, and a bit of spicecap and crushed onion. Drizzle it all in a touch of mossbark oil and you've got yourself a greenspike roll. Not a bad recipe outta Brinetown, I must say."

Stump nodded, Morg grunted, and each time they turned to leave one of the two innkeepers would suddenly recall an important piece of advice, which always turned out to be nothing more than the obvious—the roads can be dangerous, watch for highwaymen, make sure you don't drink all the water too quickly, spread out your meals, use the sun as a guide.

It didn't seem to register for them that Peaktree Manor was only a few hours down the road.

Bubbles came out to say goodbye, his presence only known by the tiny footprints leaving the inn. He leapt up Reema's apron and settled on her shoulder. She held him steady with one hand and gently stroked his invisible tail with the other, giving the impression that she was playing the world's chubbiest violin.

Morg, Stump and Griza left after a final round of farewells, and slowly the inn and its keepers disappeared to their backs and the rush of the Brightwater fell away. Whispering fields of goldhush filled the silence. Purple-bellied clouds sailed by on windy currents high above. Ahead rolled sprawling farmland, with its fields of compost and underground fungal beds, and somewhere beyond waited Peaktree Manor and an army of goblins.

It had felt like a lifetime ago that Stump had run from his tribe. From the matrons and his execution. He'd left everything behind to keep his promise to Yeza that he would survive, and he did.

Now I'm going back, he thought, swallowing hard.

Back to Thrung.

And back to you, Yeza.