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

Green Men In The Greenhouse

The Valroys have recently suffered a goblin raid that left their greenhouse ransacked. Maven Valroy has requested you stand guard for one week to protect it from further damage while members of The Iron Fleece venture into the wilderness to uproot the problem at its source—a nearby goblin tribe.

Reward: 3 Silver for one night + 2 Silver per day thereafter, up to one week

Assigned to: Stump, Morg

Assisted by: Griza(?)(Unaffiliated)

A pained yell drew Stump out of the system.

Morg had one hand on his forehead, while the other held one of the obsidian orbs.

"That was stupid," Griza observed from a couple feet down the road. She yelped as Morg's boot knocked her off her feet.

"Did you hit yourself in the head with it?" Stump asked.

The dwarf had left the inn still a little drunk, and had already snuck a couple swigs of his blood beer. He rubbed the point of impact. "Thought it was worth a try. We can rule it out bein' one o' them Thermal Stones," he said, reaffixing the ball to the bandolier.

They'd opted for a rest an hour beyond the Knight Inn. The road wound north, carving through gentle hills and flanked by beds of glowcaps. Creaking windmills and tottering farmhouses poked above swaying thickets of sporegrain, whose stalks shimmered silver-green and were capped by golden bulbs sparkling with dew.

They resumed their journey again soon after with Stump at the head, Morg behind, and a confined Griza between them. Here and there a spinegoat registered their passing, mindlessly chewing a wad of cud.

"Yer slowin'," Morg said, after some time.

Stump turned to see Griza dragging her feet.

"I'm hungry," she muttered.

"I can shove a handful o' shrooms in yer mouth, if ye like."

"I want food," she demanded. "You ate bread when we last stopped."

"Bread's not for prisoners. Walk faster or I'll make ye."

Her pace slowed defiantly. Morg shoved her between the shoulders, nearly sending her crashing into the mud.

She hissed, and dug her feet in the road.

"I said walk fas—" the second time he reached out, she was ready. Griza spun on her heel and sunk her teeth into his fingers with a wet crunch. The scream that escaped him shook the ground. His fist caught her in the jaw, then once more on the nose. She let go, and her yelp was cut short by the road. Morg's boot pressed her into the dirt as quickly as the knife flashed in his hand.

"No, don't!" said Stump, waddling over.

The colour had risen to the dwarf's cheeks. He looked between Stump and Griza, holding the blade at the ready. "She bit me!" he said, almost pitifully.

"Let me go! Untie me and fight me, you ugly dwarf!" She struggled beneath his foot. He pressed her down further, squeezing the air from her chest. "Get… off… fight…"

"You can't kill her," said Stump. "We need her."

Morg appeared to briefly relish the fantasy of merging her skeleton with his boot. Finally, he stepped off.

She rolled onto her side, spitting and hacking. "That… all you… all you can do… dwarf?"

"She can keep her life, but that tongue o' hers does us no good," he said, jabbing the knife in the air.

"We need her tongue, too."

Griza managed a pained chuckle. "That's the Ergul I know. The weakest of goblinkind. Never even had your first kill."

Stump ignored her. "How are your fingers?"

The dwarf pulled off his glove, revealing two chubby digits throbbing purple. He gently squeezed them. "Gonna be swollen for days," he mumbled, his voice wavering.

"We'll put some bandages on it. Then we can treat it properly once we get to Peaktree."

"Aye." Morg reached into his pocket and unfurled a cloth. "Got somethin' else that'll make me feel a little better 'til then," he said, eyeing Griza.

They set off with Morg's fingers tightly wrapped, and the balled up cloth shoved in her mouth. She protested for a while, her shouts absorbed by the fabric, until an hour of travel sapped her spirit.

Eventually they neared a fork in the road. A wagon blocked the way, its wheel half buried in mud and its supplies spilling into the dirt. Four tall men struggled to guide their vehicle out of the mire, but one noticed the approaching goblin and turned. He was tall and thin, armoured in leather and carrying a sword at his belt. His skin was grey, his hair white, and he was signalling frantically.

Before Stump could take a step, Morg's hand was on his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" he said, glancing up. "It looks like they need help with their wheel."

The dwarf regarded the scene evenly. "Their wheel's fine. Why don't ye stay with the prisoner while I see what's the problem."

"A problem for us?"

He shrugged off the bags of supplies. "Could be. Might wanna keep that light magic at the ready."

Stump snagged Morg's wrist. "Wait," he said. He fished a Sending Stone out of his pouch and curled the dwarf's fingers around it. "Take this with you."

Morg nodded and tucked it into a chest pocket before he sauntered down the road. Stump grabbed the rope and pulled Griza close.

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Crunching dirt sounded through the pearl. It stopped when Morg did, and his voice followed, muffled like Reema's through the floorboards. "Ye lads facin' some trouble?"

The grey man indicated the other three still wrestling with the wheel. "Got sunk, as you can see. Been trapped for about an hour," he said.

Morg gauged the damage. "Doesn't look too deep. I can lend ye a hand if that's what ye need."

"Ah, you know how these roads can be. They don't fancy giving back what they've taken."

"Aye."

"I was hoping you'd be able to lend some glimmer. That way I can head back to Grimsgate and hire someone who knows how to fix this sort of thing."

Morg paused. "That's a long way to go. Like I said, I can lift it out for ye."

"Wouldn't want to trouble you."

"No trouble." Morg's voice was low, gravelly.

A ratfolk who was working the wagon straightened and ambled around Morg's flank. The sword at his belt caught sunlight.

Stump shuffled a few paces ahead, bringing Griza with him.

"I wouldn't want to disturb your journey," said the grey man. "Looks to be a lot of things you're carrying, there. A silver should do. Sound right, Varin?" He glanced over his shoulder at a human who'd also broken off from the vehicle.

"Two silver, I think," said Varin. "You know how they can be in Grimsgate."

"Might even go for three, just in case," chimed a dwarf.

All three had given up trying to wrest the wheel free.

"Help us out, then?" said the grey man. "Three silver and you can be on your way."

"Don't think I have three silver," Morg said flatly.

The grey man spied Stump and Griza down the road. "Maybe between you and your goblins."

"Don't think so."

He stepped forward, towering over Morg. The other three closed in. "You wouldn't mind if we checked for you now, would you?"

Silence hung for a long while between the two eye-locked figures. The squeal of metal rang through the stone before Stump saw the blade. Who drew first was hard to tell, but it was the grey man's blood that announced the battle.

He collapsed in a heap, clutching his neck. Morg spun to the others, roaring and swiping his blade across the chest of Varin. Another lunged. The other dwarf turned and broke from the fighting.

Stump started forward, holding his hand aloft. He called to the powers of Lumensa, channeling—

Griza shouldered him to the ground. She tripped over his arm in her escape, scattering clouds of dust, but rolled to her feet without slowing.

"Tits," Stump groaned. He blinked dirt out of his eyes and caught her small shape darting for the wagon and the fork in the road. He focused on the ground in front of her, spending the virtue on Minor Illusion to tear a deep hole in the dirt.

She skidded to a stop and glared down at the pit. Before she could reveal its phantasmal nature, Morg tackled the scream out of her and together they crashed in a spray of dirt.

Behind him the other dwarf was farther down the road, sprinting away.

Three bodies lay around the wagon. One of them was getting up.

Varin crawled to the vehicle and pushed himself to his knees. When he spun around, a crossbow was in his hands.

"Morg!" Stump yelled.

The dwarf sat up, Griza trapped beneath him. A bolt zipped past his ear. He spun in time to see Varin fumbling for a second shot.

"Here's for nothin'!" the dwarf said. He snatched an obsidian orb from the belt and sent it arcing high.

Varin fit the bolt in place, took aim, and vanished in a thunderous clap.

A burst of flame speared the sky. Bits of wagon and road geysered from the earth and rained down in smouldering pellets. As the smoke cleared, a patch of ash webbed from the explosion, and resting where Varin had been was the obsidian.

"Get off!" Griza demanded from beneath Morg's prone frame.

Dirt tumbled off his back as he straightened again. He glanced around with a measure of shock. "Was that me or the crossbow?"

Stump waded to the wreckage, stepping around hissing embers and the remains of the bandits. He plucked the stone out of the ash and found that it fit more snugly in his hand.

- Magic Item Updated -

Firestone

A Thermalurgic weapon imbued with explosive potential. Throw at a target to activate. Has limited charges. Each use destroys some of its surface, until the obsidian is consumed with its final charge.

Charges: 4/5

Value: Requires Appraisal

He gingerly slipped the ball into a pouch and approached Morg. Blood was smeared across the dwarf's mask.

He noted Stump's concern. "It's not mine," he said.

"Let me up! I was nearly free!" Griza struggled beneath his thigh.

He looked down at her. "I say we turn 'round and toss her in the Blightwater."

Stump kneeled, his shadow falling across her form. "Where were you trying to go?" he said. She stopped squirming and blinked up at him long enough to consider the question. "Thrung doesn't want you there, you said so yourself."

"I'll tell Fire-Spitter where you are. Where to find you!" she said, more desperate than determined.

"Then what? He banishes you again?"

"No! He'll forgive me! I'll be his favourite!"

"Or maybe he won't banish you. Maybe it'll be the Wildrun and the Mark of Grumul."

Panic struck her face, but she hissed it away. "You know nothing!"

"Where'd that damned cloth get to?" Morg wondered, glancing around.

Stump shuffled closer, his knee grazing her elbow. She recoiled from the touch. "We're not going to hurt you if you don't hurt us," he said.

"Cut these ropes and see how long that lasts!" she dared.

Despite her fuming he knew the anger would fizzle without a source to stoke it. "We're not going to let you up until you promise you won't run away again."

Morg nudged her with his foot. "He's bein' more merciful to ye than I ever would," he said.

Stump gave her a moment to reply, but other than her ragged breaths and her pupils gradually shrinking to their natural size, she said nothing. "If you do try to run away again, or bite my friend's fingers, there'll be no dinner for you when we get to Peaktree. And I'm sure they'll be making some tasty tall men food," he said, knowing the pangs of hunger that often struck after the bloodlust and bloodhangover had run their course.

Her face was a brew of ire and confusion. Slowly her breathing steadied, and hunger won out. "I won't run away," she said, and added with a venomous bite before her anger dulled, "Ergul."

Most of the next hour was journeyed in silence. They'd surveyed the wagon for any useful supplies, but the explosion hadn't spared much more than ash and dismembered bodies.

Morg took over prisoner duty. He gripped the rope tightly with both hands, dragging Griza by his side. Stump walked further ahead, but slowed enough to fall in by his friend's side.

"Who were those people back there?" he said.

Beneath the mask the dwarf's beard was heavy with dirt. "Highwaymen," he muttered.

"Bandits?"

"Aye."

There was a pause.

"You've seen them before?" asked Stump.

Morg gave him a sideways glance. "Those four?"

"Bandits."

The dwarf mumbled wearily.

"I didn't think they'd be so close to farmland," Stump mused.

"Not many other places for 'em to be. Beyond the shroud o' Lumensa lies creatures from outside our world. Beasts like that Gorthal in Stonegrave. Here the robbers can call 'emselves princes, but out there it's the monsters who take their toll."

Stump looked to Griza and wondered if she was conjuring any memories of their tribe. Of their raids. Their home. Other than leaving their cave for short forays to war with other tribes or to steal from the tall men, goblins hid. There were dangers out there, they knew, and they would never travel far enough to meet them.

"One of them got away," Stump said absentmindedly.

"Hm?"

"One of the bandits. A dwarf."

"Hm."

"Think he'll make it?"

The packs clinked as Morg shrugged. "Might be he runs into trouble of his own down the road," he said.

There was a longer amiable pause, during which Morg hummed in deep thought. But before anyone broke the silence, a timely wind rolled over them, bending nearby stalks of goldhush and carrying the pungent stench of rot. A cloud of flies buzzed above a clutch of weeds growing off the side of the road. Stump's ears perked.

"Something's dead," Griza observed.

Morg sniffed through his mask. "I smell nothin'."

The scent intensified as Stump moved to the flies, and when he peeked over the low fence sagging on the roadside, he was met with the shrivelled remains of a spinegoat. It had shrunk and dried out as if baked under an oppressive sun, but Stump's goblin instincts told him it hadn't been dead for longer than a day.

"Blood's been drained," Morg grumbled.

Stump jumped at the dwarf's sudden presence beside him. "Drained?"

Griza lunged for the creature, but the rope snapped taut. Morg yanked her to his thigh. "Blood's drained, I said. Not enough on 'em bones for ye to feast on."

Stump hesitated before asking his next question. "What do you think drained it?"

The dwarf's contemplative breaths hissed through cracks in the mask. "Not sure I want to know," he said.