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

Thud.

Hammers, axes, and fists rattled the door, and the ceiling bent beneath the stomping of the horde. The most furious of them would be clawing or biting at the wood, hoping to be the first through the breach to claim glory for themselves and their king.

Stump looked to the others. "Are we ready?" he said.

He found defeated frowns and the tired eyes of the defenders staring back at him. Wick was on his haunches, leaning against the wall. Ilora's hair was matted with sweat and grime. Even Rilla glanced up at the sounds with something approaching fear.

The palisade had fallen. The manor had fallen. And the dark hole they found themselves in would fall, they all seemed to silently agree.

"We have to fight them," Stump urged. "Those bottles you mentioned, maybe we break them and scatter the glass over the steps. Or throw them at the goblins and… Kestrel can use his fire magic." The thought chilled his skin. He didn't want anyone to burn to death, even the monsters of his old tribe.

Rilla nodded, then snapped herself out of a daze. "You, dwarf up there. Can you hold them off a little longer?"

Anger rolled down the steps even before Morg replied. "What do ye think I've been doin' this whole time? Stop yappin' with me 'n get yer defences shored!"

She took the scolding with a measure of respect. "Bottles. How many do we have?" When no one immediately answered, she turned to Faelan and raised her voice. "Bottles, I said! How many?"

"Nearly sixty," he stammered. "But that was before the ones on those racks were shattered."

She turned to the Valroys before he'd finished his sentence. "Are there any other ways for the goblins to get in?"

Merra was sitting up, grimacing through pain and nursing the burns on her skin.

"A tunnel at the far end," she said. "Accessed by a secret hatch in the pumpkin field. If the goblins had found it they'd be here already."

"Then we split our forces. Do as Stump says," said Rilla, pacing the cellar. "Shatter the bottles on the stairs, and here, on the floor. Light it as the army comes down, then form a shield wall to kill the rest. If they're not entirely devoid of self preservation they'll flee once enough have died. The rest of us escape through that tunnel to get the Valroys and the Orwens to safety while the defenders here hold off the army as long as possible. Now, who volunteers to stay?"

Silence. Everyone looked to everyone else, hoping another would step forward.

"Speak up or I'll start calling names," she said.

"I'll stay," came a raspy voice.

They turned to find Kestrel still on his knees. He wiped his eyes and pushed himself to his feet. "I'll stay behind to light the defences."

Rilla's eyes bounced off him without warmth. "Who else?" The shuddering door broke the quiet. "Alright then. Tallas."

The felari hobbled out of the shadows. "Not me, I'm injured," he pleaded, clutching his leg.

"We're all injured. You're staying."

"I'm not! This was never our quest."

Rilla threatened him with a cold glare. "As your commander I insist you stay."

"You're not my commander, actually. That's Gerris, and for the time being, Wick. Without our virtue you and I are the same."

If not for the many witnesses the fury in her eyes might have translated into physical force, but she relented with a scowl. "Dharmis!" she yelled. "Boren! You two will stay. Who will join them?"

Both mercenaries stood at the same time and exchanged a tired look. "You're not our commander, either," said Boren, almost apologetically. "The Iron Fleece takes no orders from you."

"They'll break our defences," Dharmis added. "Just like the palisade. We'll die if we stay."

Rilla turned to Hadder next, only to be refused. Durgish said no. Not even Ilora could be convinced, and she didn't even bother asking Wick.

He was slumped on the floor, his darting eyes both alert and faraway. Stump crossed the room as the mercenaries collapsed into argument, and fell to his knees.

"Wick, are you alright?" he said.

It took a moment for the muridean to register his presence. "Are w-w-we going to die?" he whispered.

I don't know, Stump thought. "No," he said.

Wick's stare was quizzical. "How are you not afraid?"

"I am," Stump admitted, and it was true. His heart clamoured with such intensity it was difficult to separate the pounding of his chest from the hammering of the cellar door. But the bloodlust spurred him on despite it, and he was learning to live with the rage. To embrace it, even. Borag had once called him brave, and although Stump thought it was a silly thing to say, he at least no longer believed he was a coward.

"You need to rally them," he said, indicating the bickering Fellowship.

Wick shook his head, confused. "Rally them?"

"Inspire them. They're frightened."

The muridean gawked. "M-me? But I'm frightened. I don't have any virtue left. And I'm not the one w-who… uh, I'm not…"

Stump grabbed Wick's shoulders. "You are. It's your company. Rilla is a good commander, but what they need now is a good leader. You're afraid, but so are they, and what better way to lead them than by standing up anyway?"

The prospect of it seemed to swell more terror in the ratfolk than their possible imminent deaths.

"I…" he began, then swallowed hard. "I'll... I'll try."

Tenet of Lumensa Fulfilled - Virtue +1 (8/10)

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He stood, his shoulders slumped, and waited timidly for the right time to interrupt the debate.

"So they can be defended while they escape!" Rilla was saying. "There might be more goblins out there."

"Then you can stay and the rest of us will take them," Tallas argued. "The defence is your plan, not ours."

"Might be best if we all abandon the manor," said Dharmis. "No one stays behind."

"I'm staying," Wick managed, but his words landed softly, and no one heard. He looked down at Stump for reassurance.

"Like a leader," Stump urged.

Wick cleared his throat and tried again.

"I'm staying!" This time his voice bounced off the walls and turned all heads his way. The expectant silence that followed made him take a step back. He dipped his head. "S-sorry. I… I'll stay."

"No one's staying by the sound of it, Wick," said Hadder.

Merra struggled to sit upright. "You can't abandon Peaktree!" she cried. "My family bled to build this place."

"And we've bled enough protecting it!" said Boren.

The rest of Wick's thoughts came out in stuttered whispers as his command of their attention slipped away.

Come on, Wick. Stay strong. Show them who you are.

Amidst the battle of arguments and counterarguments he took a deep breath and curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword. He unsheathed it with a surprisingly clean sweep, leaving a steady ring in the air.

"No one's abandoning Peaktree!" he bellowed, silencing Rilla mid-sentence. "No one's r-r-running! W-we need defenders here while the others get to safety. I'll stay, fighting w-with the bravest of you." He pointed his blade at Tallas.

The catfolk stiffened at the address and put a nervous hand to his chest. "Me?" he said.

"The Tal I remember is the one who stepped into the basement of Wayward Wares against all w-warnings of the creatures below. We all thought you'd be picked apart by shallowsnappers, but who was it who walked out of there with the severed claws of his enemies? Tell me who!"

Tallas allowed the barest hint of a prideful nod. "I did," he said.

Hadder was next to receive the end of Wick's sword point.

"And you, Had the Mad, the Maddest Lad," Wick began with a reminiscent lilt. "Kal Drumm hooked us into his trap company, before we ever made copper. Do you remember?"

Hadder nodded, and a smile touched the corners of his lips. "I remember."

"And who was it that marched to the Sunken City alone to uncurl the Bone Drummer's fingers from around our necks with nothing but a coin purse? It was the Maddest Lad I ever met, from what I recall."

"It was," said Hadder. He drew his own sword. "It damn well was."

"And for Durg I hardly need to say a thing. Those goblins at our door have not seen what the Brine Brothers have seen. They haven't experienced what that nest of mud spiders at Nessie's tavern experienced. They ought to count themselves lucky you chose the class of Medic."

Durgish was on his feet again with wild eyes. "Aye, they bloody are!" He grabbed a nearby bottle of brandy and threatened an imaginary foe with it. "I'm with ye! I don't give a damn what these other layabouts do, I'm with ye 'til the end!"

"That's the second time I've been called a layabout this week," Tallas groaned. He pulled his rapier free. "I'm about to prove you all wrong, it seems. I'm with you even more than Durg is. And I'm taller, too."

Wick raised his sword, carrying the momentum forward. "We didn't run from the Drummer's threats, we didn't run from the Brine Brothers or the monsters under Wayward Wares, and we didn't run from the Midnight Ocelots! And we will not run today! Peaktree is ours! Show. No. FEAR!"

He didn't have any virtue to give, but he didn't need it. The words swept through the cellar on a current of courage alone, drawing everyone to their feet and the weapons from their scabbards, and the low-vaulted ceiling shook not from the goblins above but the cheers below.

"Show no fear! Show no fear!" they echoed.

Loud affirmations of the motto punctuated their flurry of movement. Wood was broken down, racks and shelving snapped in two, and bottles were gathered and set beside the defenders in rows of ammunition.

Stump followed Rilla, the Valroys, the Orwens, and the Iron Fleece—except for Ilora, who decided to stay with the Fellowship—to the far end of the cellar.

Maven, swaddled in a dark cloak and biting back the pain of her burns, worked a hidden iron crank. A jagged section of wall groaned open, sliding against the stone floor, and a cool rush of wind breathed out of an unlit tunnel.

The Iron Fleece headed in first, followed by Tydas with Merra over his shoulder. Lyda padded behind them with her grandmother, and Rilla took up the rear with a barely conscious Eskel clinging to her side.

"Ready!" she called.

Stump stepped into the tunnel, at the edge of darkness, and waited for his friend.

"Alright, then!" said Morg. He bounded down the steps with his stubby dwarven legs and broke across the floor.

He reached Stump as the cellar door squealed open and light spilled down the steps. Goblins raced, tumbled, and tripped down like they'd been sprung from a sling, and all around them glass shattered. Bottles of red and white, old vintages and newer blends. Wine dripped from the ceiling and spilled across stone, and then it went up in arcane fire.

"Show no fear!" Wick roared, raising his shield.

The others interlocked with his and joined their voices as one.

"SHOW NO FEAR! SHOW NO FEAR!"

Twilight met them on the other side.

Rilla was first to peek out, and at her urging the trapdoor was thrown wide. She pulled herself up and offered her hand to the next to make the climb. Once they'd all spilled into the pumpkin patch and gathered their bearings, they looked up the hill to the towers of smoke drifting from the windows of the manor and the splintered palisade around it.

The obsidian had long ago stopped spewing its dark clouds, but still the manor was shrouded in makeshift night. And all around it scurried bands of goblins. They darted in and out of windows and doors, spilling treasures and gifts for their king down the hillside.

"Pa..." Lyda murmured. She clutched a hooded cloak around her shoulders with a singed hand, and began to sway. "Pa..." she repeated, before collapsing in the dirt.

"Lyda!" Tydas rushed over and shielded her from the sun. "Merra, we must..." When he looked to his wife, she had sunk to her knees and was fighting off sleep. "Merra!"

Rilla towered over the manor lord. "Are there any nearby steads we can take you to?" she asked. "Any friends of your family?"

Tydas, holding his daughter on his hands and knees, looked up through exhausted eyes. Strands of sweaty hair stuck to his forehead.

"Anyone you might've had over for a feast? Traded with? Aided in any sort of way?" she added impatiently.

He looked to be contemplating deeply. After a while he shook his head.

"We know a family," said Nell. "Ruggan's house and ours have been close for many years."

"Then go there. Now. We'll stay here for our allies."

"They'll take us in," Faelan interrupted. "But they won't accept Tydas. They know him only as the Tyrant of Peaktree, the man who bled them dry."

"Please," said Tydas. He shuffled over to the farmer and bowed at his feet. When he spoke all the calm, lordly strength Stump had come to know was gone. "I beg you. Ruggan can turn me away if he likes. I only want shelter for my family."

Faelan regarded the lord of Peaktree halfway between contempt and pity. After a deep breath he offered his hand.

"We'll see what can be done," he promised.

Tydas accepted, and was helped to his feet.

The two farming families crept away, side by side, the Orwens coloured in regal finery, and the Valroys shrouded in the cowls and cloaks they'd taken from the tunnel. Dharmis, Boren, and Eskel went with them, and together they vanished between stalks of wheat.

Rilla gazed on the manor with a weathered frown. She thrust her sword into soil and turned to Stump and Morg. "You should have followed them," she said. "No need for you to wait for the others."

Stump looked up the hill, to the cheering goblins and the dead tribesmen at their feet, and to the pluming smoke beyond, and the occasional gout of flame breathing out a window.

Thrung.

Stump's hands flickered as Alter Image did its work. He had no particular goblin in mind, but he remembered with perfect clarity his own reflection in the mirror only hours ago, and nudged his features into a blend of all the tribesmen of his past—the ones who'd beaten him, tormented him, or called him coward and cursed his life.

When he looked up again alarm pulled Rilla back several paces. She drew her sword from the earth.

"It's just a spell. I'm still me," he said. "You don't have to wait. Once Wick and the rest come through the tunnel, run."

Uncertainty seemed to dull Morg's comprehension. "What do ye mean?" he asked.

"I'm not running anymore."

Before either of them could say otherwise, Stump was bounding for the manor, kicking clouds of soil behind him.

Their voices gave chase, but they didn't, and soon the clamouring bloodlust in his ears was louder than their protests. He ran and ran. And this time it wasn't away from something—not the bullies of his tribe, and not the matrons or the fate of his failed raid.

And not Thrung.

I'm coming for you, he thought.

And you, Yeza.