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

Stump woke to the clang of metal and the rhythmic shouting of Rilla.

He moved to the window where he found her pacing back and forth, barking orders to the Iron Fleece contingent as they practiced sprinting from the palisade to the manor and back again.

He smiled when he noticed little Lyda following off to the side, though she was behind at least a lap and a half.

"Stump..." someone wheezed.

Stump turned to see Morg waking from a chair much too small for him. His skin was tight and dry. His eyes drooped. There was more silver than black in his beard, and when he tried to stand, his legs wobbled and gave out.

"Don't stand so fast," Stump warned, rushing over. He placed a hand on his friend's arm and found skin cool to the touch. "It's getting worse."

Morg choked on a laugh. "Observant today, aren't ye?"

"You need to eat."

Another attempt to straighten ended with a pained grunt. "Why don't ye tell me somethin' I don't know?" said Morg.

"I can bring you something from the barn. I'll bring a bowl, or a cup, and maybe..." Stump's thought fizzled as he realized the absurdity of it.

"Aye. Nothin' more inconspicuous than a gobby wanderin' the halls with a bowl o' blood."

"I'm surprised you know that word."

"Careful, or I'll take a bite out o' you."

Stump mulled the idea. "You could," he said, rolling up his sleeve. "Just enough to get you through the day."

"It was a jest."

"I wouldn't mind."

"No," Morg hissed, then appeared to regret spending the energy. "It's not so easy for us. Vampires, I'm sayin'. Feastin' on blood closer in kind to me own is temptin'. Too temptin', if ye understand me. Once I get the taste it's hard to stop. Best quench meself on livestock."

Stump dangled a defeated silence. There was the kitchens, he supposed, and there might be fresh meat to be found there. But even if it was bloody enough and he could find a way to bring it up to Morg, Kestrel was suspicious and would be watching Stump's every move.

Morg rested a hand on Stump's shoulder. "I'll be fine," he said on a waver of uncertainty. "Mornin's are like this. All's I need is an hour or two to muster the might. Go 'bout yer day with nothin' to fret."

It wasn't a promise Stump could keep, but he left with a nod and a reassuring smile and steeled himself for the day.

The ground floor was alive with activity. Maven sat in a chair in the main hall, directing servants with her pipe on how to properly affix the ropes above the front door to trigger their trap when it opened. When Stump veered too close to a window, a nearby servant hissed at him to keep away from the thin fabrics passing for carpet and the shards of glass they hid.

By the time he made it outside, he felt as though he'd navigated a labyrinth.

"Draw! Loose!" Rilla was saying.

The ones she'd absorbed under her command mimed drawing a bowstring back and firing imaginary arrows down the hill.

"Goblins have breached the perimeter! Fall back! Fall back!"

They pretended to sling their bows over their backs, then turned and darted to the manor, their clothes dark with sweat.

"Faster, Perrin! At this rate Puggish will outlive you! Do you want your life to end in goblin stew? Because that's how you do it!"

Lyda, apparently bored with playing along, charted her own path and broke away from the manor, but Merra swept in from the flank and lifted her off her feet.

"Not beyond the manor's shadow," Merra chided. "We agreed, didn't we? There are goblins out there."

Lyda assumed the limberness of a pouting corpse in her mother's arms, and didn't reassert control of her body until Merra set her down again.

"Your ideas were good," said Rilla, standing next to him.

The directness of her tone startled Stump to attention. "Oh, uh, thank you. I saw them setting up one of my traps inside."

The Iron Fleece mercenaries had doubled over or collapsed in the dirt, sucking in air like they'd been pulled from a shipwreck.

"None of the farms have been attacked, in case you were wondering. The mercenaries we sent out returned empty handed, though. None of them are willing to fight for a tyrant, they said," she went on. "Strange there's been no sight of the goblins. Not even a pillar of smoke in the distance. If they've scouted us as you say, is there a reason they'd wait so long? Why allow us to build a foothold and prepare our defences?"

"Maybe…" Stump began, but in truth he couldn't quite decipher what Thrung might be thinking. He'd been privy to the strategizing that occurred before a raid—he'd even planned his own—but there was little more to their tactics than disguise, wait, attack.

Typically waiting was as simple as passing the time until the target was in view or close enough to kill with a short charge fuelled by the bloodlust, but it wouldn't be so easy with the defences of the manor. Thrung was stupid, but he wasn't stupid enough to not recognize that.

"They're stalling for something," Stump said absentmindedly.

Rilla kissed her teeth. "Yes, I'd say that's obvious. If it's to starve us out, that won't happen for months."

"No, it's not to starve us out. That would be seen as a weak victory. They must attack. They're waiting for something else."

Rilla's face was grim. "But what?" she said.

Prophecy? he thought, but felt it too silly to say out loud. Griza had mentioned six and thirty as important numbers in their new sacrilegious mythology, but the goblins seemed divided on what they meant. Maybe the numbers have something to do with it?

Before Stump could ponder further, Tallas and Dharmis staggered over like a pair of drunks. The felari had his arm around the other's shoulder.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"This one here has a request—" Tallas began.

Dharmis, dragging his feet, shushed him. "No, not right now. It's not—"

"He would like—"

"Shut up, Tal!"

Tallas deftly evaded the lizardfolk's swatting, and raised his voice above the protests. "He would like to ask you a question, Rill. Go ahead, tell them your name, Dharmis. Ah, shit. Sorry."

The lizardfolk punched hard enough to knock Tallas off balance. "Idiot," he hissed.

Tallas rubbed the point of impact. "Pardon you, sir. Only Rill is allowed to call me that."

She scowled. "What's this about?"

Dharmis retreated into himself. He glanced at his toes and scratched the back of his head. "Uh… well… I'm Dharmis. Uh…"

"Yes, I remember."

"Oh, alright, that's good," he said and chuckled away the awkwardness. "I was just thinking… uh, pondering, really… that maybe… perhaps… but only if it's alright, of course… and not right now. It's a stressful, uh… time, and I just thought… maybe—"

Tallas groaned. "He wants to join our company!" he announced as though the news might break the muridean into cheer.

She did not.

Rilla appraised him from head to toe with pursed lips. "Class?" she said.

"Uh…" Dharmis licked his lips.

"You have a class don't you? I remember your name on the list but I don't recall your information."

"Ranger."

"Level?"

"Ten." It was delivered on a waver of regret.

Rilla cocked her head. "Ten," she repeated with a sigh. "First thing's first. Prove your worth in the battle to come. We'll talk after. Anything else?"

"N…no, sir. Ma'am."

"Good. Be off. And don't let this layabout sway you from your training," she said, jabbing a finger at Tallas.

The felari snickered at the comment, then pulled a relieved Dharmis away from the conversation. "You did good! I told you she'd be nice to you…" Tallas' voice trailed off as they returned to their sparring ground.

Rilla shook her head. "What is he? Seventeen? Eighteen?" she said. "Next the daughter's going to ask to enlist."

Stump looked back to Lyda who had begun running circles around the exhausted mercenaries. "Don't give her any ideas," he warned.

"And you," Rilla ignored him. "Start thinking up reasons why the goblins might be delaying their attack. We can't afford to be surprised. Especially not now when I have my own men fraternizing more than they are training."

The two friends picked up their swords and resumed their spar, interrupted here and there by a joke or playful banter. Tallas from the Downs—Guttershine, most likely—and Dharmis from the city, a member of one of its most prestigious companies. Their lives might've been far apart, but their worlds were neighbours, and without the walls or the Brightwater between them, all the imaginary pretensions Torrig had dreamed up fell away.

Tenet of Lumensa Fulfilled - Virtue +1 (3/9)

"No," said Stump. He cracked a smile. "This is exactly what we need. When goblins fight it's for themselves, for personal glory and plunder. When we fight, it must be for each other."

Fleets of purple clouds sailed on bands of twilight. The setting sun dazzled the horizon with arms of orange and gold layered over streaks of undersea blue, like a painting that couldn't quite decide on time of day.

Patrols came and went. Ilora traced a path back and forth two or three hundred times, then Durgish took her place. Eventually he was gone too, and another dwarf of the Iron Fleece rallied to the duty—Pugg, his friends called him.

And still the goblins waited.

So did Stump. He sat in the greenhouse, joined only by the Speak-To-Me-Nots at his back. He'd set the Sending Stone on a workbench, surrounded by scattered remnants of soil, and watched its pearly surface more than he observed the hill.

Thrung, what are you waiting for? he thought.

Long after his feet had fallen asleep, and tired of the silence, he grabbed the stone. He brought it to his lips and squeezed gently until it flared white. "Thrung…" he whispered.

He waited. Pugg paced once. Twice.

"Thrung…" Stump repeated, louder. He hoped the disrespect would incite enough rage from the goblin king to draw a response. When it didn't, Stump sighed. "Fire-Spitter…"

Wind. Quiet. Pugg sneezed.

Stump slammed the stone down and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, but his mind was abuzz. What are they thinking? What are they planning? Six tribes. Thirty… days? Hours? What would it mean to Thrung? What would it mean to a goblin?

"Sir Stump?"

He nearly fell out of his seat. Behind him stood Ivis, carrying a steaming tray.

"Apologies, I didn't mean to startle you," he said.

"No, that's alright. I didn't hear you coming," said Stump. His nose wrinkled at the scent of garlic and butter. "Is that for me?"

Ivis smiled. "I thought you might be hungry." He set the tray down, revealing a plate of sizzling fish, grilled golden brown and seasoned with herbs. "Compliments of our head chef, Gorash."

Stump dove into the meal with both hands, ignoring the bite of the trailing steam, but stopped short when he noticed the cutlery laid out for him.

"Oh," he said with an awkward chuckle. He armed himself with the fork and knife. "Goblin habits."

"You needn't worry yourself over the etiquette, sir Stump."

He worried despite the reassurance. "Why do you call me that?" he asked, carving into the fish with his silver weaponry.

"I suppose you remind me of the tales I read as a boy in Grimsgate. Knights and the like."

"Ghrmgh?" Stump said, mouth full. He swallowed hurriedly and repeated, "You're from Grimsgate?"

A reminiscent smile disturbed Ivis' whiskers. "I am. I have fond memories of it, and those stories. I used to imagine I'd be a Knight one day, but I was meant for the manor, it seems."

"I always thought I'd be a Knight, too," said Stump. A wistful sadness came over him at the thought of Denna. "But my friend helped me realize that you don't need to learn how to swing a sword or wear armour to be a knight. You can be kind, and help people. That's what all the stories are about, aren't they?"

Ivis' eyes retreated to the floor, where he was thinking deeply. "Of course. Kindness. Bravery. I've seen these qualities in you, and I would like to return the favour."

Seeing no practical use in a fork, Stump skewered a chunk of fish with his knife and dropped it on his tongue.

"What do you mean?" he said.

Ivis' jaw tightened. "I owe the Valroys my life for taking me in. Lady Maven. Merra. Lyda. But I hold no loyalty to Tydas. He is a Valroy in name, but his blood is not theirs. And you must be careful, sir Stump."

The sudden weight of Ivis' words caught Stump off guard.

"Of Tydas?" he said.

"The Black Sun."

The warning landed like a punch.

Despite only the two of them in the greenhouse, Stump leaned in and whispered, "Why?"

"He is watching your dwarven friend."

Watching Morg? Stump thought. It wasn't so much himself he was worried about. He knew he was under suspicion, but he hoped that would be enough to draw attention away from his friend.

"How do you know?" he said.

"He asks the household staff what they've seen. What they've heard." Ivis rushed through the admission, not wanting the words to linger in the gloom.

"And what do they say?"

Ivis shook his head. He was already beginning to shuffle away. "I cannot be certain. All I know is that he is on the hunt, and your friend is in danger," he said, before stealing back into the manor and out of sight.

Stump returned his attention to his watch, but his mind was alight.

Even with all their preparation their defences would crumble under the invasion of Thrung and his army if they couldn't work together. Goblins were disorganized, more frenzied than they were brave, but they were singular in their objective to kill. To plunder. The bloodlust was a primal calling, an ancestral tide that drowned petty rivalries and personal hatreds. And out of the madness would come terrifying cohesion.

How can we beat that if we're fighting among ourselves?

A breeze whistled by, followed by a clatter.

Stump straightened, and through the greenhouse panes he noticed Pugg had paused his sentry. He was looking over his shoulder towards the stables. Their eyes met to confirm whether or not they'd imagined the sound.

With a nod Stump shuffled out of the greenhouse. He did as he had the first time he heard the sound, and crept to the stable doors in a silent crouch and slipped inside without so much as stirring a string of hay.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

Morg? he wondered, but kept his mouth shut. He moved swiftly from stall to stall, his shoulder to the wood, and spied the only one with a door slightly ajar. He slowed as he neared, then sank to his knees one stall away. The wood stopped an inch or two off the ground. Beneath was scattered hay, a trough or a bucket, and two pairs of hooves.

And the bottoms of two dark boots.

Stump squinted, forcing his goblin eyes to chase away the darkness. They were narrower than dwarven footwear, fine in make. Definitely not Morg.

It was someone smaller than Tydas, but bigger than Maven.

Merra?

He moved closer, and reached for the door.

The drinking stopped, and so did Stump.

A wind funnelled through the barn, rattling the wood. It swung towards him. He reached for it.

There was a patter, a shriek, and the door slammed wide, cracking against Stump's nose. The world flashed white. He spun, bounced off a stall, and tumbled to the floor.

By the time he clutched his nose and rolled to his feet, the horse stood alone, and a trail of settling dust only hinted at where the vampire had gone.