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

Towers of smoke bent with the wind and blew clear across the land. The manor stood in their shadows, a hollow shell of the stony monstrosity Stump had seen on his first visit.

He turned away and hissed at the pain. Everything hurt. Burns, cuts, and scrapes marred his body, and while Durgish had done his best pilfering Eskel's store of bandages to patch the injuries, the sight of the fallen was a wound so deep not even magic could heal it.

Puggish. Perrin. Gorash. Ivis. He'd only learned the names of the others after they were gone—Meena of the Iron Fleece, Izanis and Arjun of Peaktree. They'd brought their bodies to the north side of the manor, where the hill narrowed and sloped, and the wind rushed in from the forest.

The only one who knew the funerary rites and wasn't unconscious or recovering in the infirmary was Durgish. He timidly stepped forward when no one else did, and breathed deep.

"Light," he murmured.

Stump's lumen flickered before him.

The dwarf looked back to all who'd joined them—Stump and Morg, Maven and Tydas, Kestrel, the Orwens, the dwarves of Ruggan's farm, the rest of his company, and what remained of the Iron Fleece. He cleared his throat and bowed his head.

"Sun to moon, glow to gloom," he began, his voice thick. "Rest now, o' Bright Queen, yer shroud o'er the still, 'n light a passage, o' Gloaming Veil, through the land o' dreams. By light we knew 'em, in shadow we remember. Dream well, travellers. The way is lit."

He made a slight gesture of the hand, and Stump knew without words to dim the lumen until it was gone.

Perrin, being a human, was buried without his belongings in the Auber custom, to return his flesh to the great fungal roots that stretched from all corners of twilight to the corpse of the Bright Queen. Ivis was next to him, with a favoured weapon, as was the felari way. They set the fire iron on his chest and wrapped his fingers around it.

Orcish and dwarven tradition were similar—they were adorned with trinkets of their trade before the dirt covered them. Gorash was given pots and pans and a carving knife. A garland of onion and glowcap wreathed his head, to usher his turn from man to mushroom. Puggish lay with his armour and battleaxe, the badge of his chosen brothers and sisters in arms pinned to his chest.

The others were more complicated, but Durgish insisted they respect them.

Arjun, the taurean, was to be tightly wound in mosshair from a grummox and left to the elements, suspended from a tree or atop a hill. Once only bones remained, they were to be ground into chalk and used to sketch a mural of his life on a small wooden disc.

Izanis, a lizardfolk, was to be taken to the mudflats of Guttershine, where a priest of their people was practiced in embalming his kind in pools of peat, whereas Meena the muridean required cleansing and being dressed in purple—a symbol of royalty even the lowliest of the ratfolk were given—and drifted downriver in a boat set ablaze.

Then there was Gold-Blooded. Stump hadn't said anything about her to the others after the battle. He would do it himself, he decided, once the dead were taken care of. He helped fill the graves as best he could with his small hands, but it was the larger mercenaries who did most of the work.

Partway through Morg planted his shovel in the ground like a flag of surrender, and straightened with great effort. "Now I 'member why I started drinkin'," he said.

A few chuckled, including Stump, but no one said a thing.

An hour went by before the ground was level again. Durgish stood by the graves for some time, reciting quiet prayers under his breath. Wick stayed with him, but the rest of their company headed back to the manor with the Orwens and Ruggan's family.

Stump approached Kestrel, who was gazing somewhere beyond the hills and fields. He jolted at the goblin's voice.

"I have a favour to ask you," said Stump.

Kestrel looked down at him, confused. Only hours ago they had been battling over control of a small sun.

Before he could reply, the lord of Peaktree sauntered over, his slick and shiny hair now matted and stuck to his forehead with sweat. The cool shimmer in his eyes had faded, and his pale skin was dark with dirt.

He stopped several feet away and regarded the Solarmancer for a long time. "You've been of great help to my family, and to our farm," he said. The words were delivered with sharp finality. "Without your magic we would not be where we are. The manor would not be what it is, and its fields would not be lush with suncrop. But my wife… my child…" His voice broke.

"They'll be alright, won't they?" said Stump.

The lord's back straightened with his inhale. He composed himself, and pressed his tattered clothes around his frame. "Merra will take some time to recover," he said, inviting back his considered tone. "For Lyda I cannot say. Though her scrapes are mild, I fear the damage to her soul is irreparable after what she witnessed in the cellar, from a man meant to be her protector. Her friend."

Kestrel allowed a long silence between them before he lowered his head and spoke. "I'll collect my belongings and return to the city. You won't see me again."

Tydas stepped forward and clasped his hands behind his back, and summoned the lordly confidence Stump remembered from their first encounter.

"No. I will have your requirements brought to you. You will not step foot within the walls of our home again. You are powerful, Kestrel, but whatever magic you sap from our rotting pantheon will not be enough. If I see you within sight of the walls of Peaktree after today, I will kill you."

He waited for no reply. The lord turned on his heel with as much grace as could be expected of a man stinking of goblin blood and dusted in pulverized furniture, and stalked back to the manor, his torn cloak flapping in the wind.

Kestrel waited until Tydas was gone before he spoke. "He showed more mercy than I deserve," he said.

Stump glanced up to find the Solarmancer staring wistfully at the battered home. "He knows the hurt you've been through, and the anger you have."

There was pain in Kestrel's scoff. "You mentioned a favour," he said, turning away from Peaktree for what might have been the last time.

The pyre was a mound of broken table legs and shattered chairs.

Morg and Wick assisted in retrieving the wood, and Durgish lifted Gold-Blooded's body atop the crooked structure and laid her on a blanket wreathed in straw. He offered to say the words for her passing, but Stump declined.

Goblins had no funeral rites. Fire was all that was needed. To show sadness and despair, let alone to put those emotions into words, was not their way. Even anger was kept from the passing through fire. Why feel such pain when the dead would be with Grumul, and you would one day join them?

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

But Stump was not like the others. They'd always said so. He was too short to be a goblin. He was too timid, too kind. Maybe they were right. But they had their own weaknesses that for him were strengths. For them the bloodlust was hatred and rage, but he'd learned from his training with Wasptongue that it was much more than his tribe ever knew.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let the ancestral power flow through him. The rapid drumming of anger slowed to a tempo of grief, and with a long exhale it steadied somewhere between the two.

When he opened his eyes Morg was standing beside him, watching the unlit pyre with a frown. "I'm sorry how it all turned out with yer friend Griza," said the dwarf.

"Gold-Blooded," Stump corrected. "She earned her warname."

"Aye, that she did. Sorry how it turned out with the king o' gobby's too, gettin' away like he did."

Stump hadn't decided what his company was going to do next until Morg spoke. Maybe it was the focus provided by the bloodlust, or how he was no longer afraid of his own goblin past, or maybe it was the thought of Yeza. Whatever it was, the direction of the Nobodies came with perfect clarity all at once.

"He didn't get away," said Stump. "He's just retreated back to his hole. And I know where it is."

Morg glanced askew at his shorter friend. "Ye mean to go huntin' him down?"

"Our quest was to protect Maven's greenhouse, but it's more than that now. Thrung's scared, but that can't last. His tribe won't follow him if it does, and Peaktree won't be safe while he's their king. We can either wait for him to come back, or we can go end it ourselves."

Morg placed a hand on Stump's shoulder. "It's a folly goin' out beyond the Bright Queen's shroud with 'em monsters 'n nightmares—"

"Denna's out there somewhere. I need to believe that. And he's got Yeza. I'm afraid what Thrung will do now that he's lost the battle. He'll be angry. I have to, Morg. I have to."

"Ye didn't let me finish," said the dwarf, stepping closer. "It's a folly, aye, but half o' what we done with our company's been wrongful thinkin' if the cozy warmth o' safety's what yer after. If yer set on leavin' the shroud to put the goblin king in his grave, then I'm with ye, 'n I'm bringin an extra shovel, manner o' speakin'."

Stump met the eyes of the dwarf towering above and blinked against the ever fading light of evening, and felt in that moment that their mutual struggles against the world had forged their friendship beyond the need for thank yous. All he needed to do was smile, and through the battered iron mask and tangled beard he knew Morg was smiling back.

"Do you think we'll be able to convince some of the others to come with us?" Stump said. "Boren and Dharmis are scared, but Denna's one of their own. Wick's braver than everyone thinks, unless Rilla's around. And she might say no."

" 'Tween the two of us, yer the one who's talent lies in inspirin' folk, so I'll leave that to ye." Morg tapped the dagger at his hip. "Me own trade is in the cold touch o' steel."

"Right. I'll talk to them. After…" Stump turned to the pyre as a strong breeze swelled over the hill and tussled Gold-Blooded's white hair the same way her own breathing did when she slept. The memory struck like an arrow.

Sensing his pain, Morg softened his voice. "I can stay with ye 'til it's over, if ye like."

Stump wiped his eyes. "No. She's a goblin, and so am I. That's all she needs to pass through fire from our world to the next. You should rest, Morg. You fought hard."

Before he departed, Morg looked across to Kestrel, who kept his distance, waiting for the signal to light the fire. They watched each other for a long time until Morg broke the stare with a stiff nod, and Kestrel nodded back.

Nothing else needed to be said.

"Are you ready?" said Kestrel, once the dwarf was gone.

Stump moved beside him. "I am. I think she is, too."

A crackle announced the flames. It began somewhere in the heart of broken furniture and spread its arms of red heat, which forked and met and split again with ravenous hunger. Clutches of straw blackened and curled like closing fists. A snap belched a cloud of orange embers, and the air around her warped with rippling heat, colouring her skin more red than green.

Up and up it went. The pops and crackles roared, tongues grew to towers of flame, and soon Stump could see nothing but fire. Gold-Blooded the Fearless, he thought. Pass through fire. The way is lit.

He craned his neck to follow the smoke and the little burning cinders that fluttered away like birds, vanishing in the air. Motes of light. Tiny lumens. Little Stars. He looked even further, to the fuzzy pink and purple bands of twilight melting over the horizon, and to the glittering sheet of night hidden behind them. He imagined those tiny embers were shards, fragmentary vessels of her soul that would meet again beyond the veil to forge a star of their own.

A burning battlefield in the sky, just for her.

Tenet of Lumensa Fulfilled - Virtue +1 (5/10)

Only ash remained.

The blackened skeleton of the pyre hissed away its final colonies of flame, and in front of it stood Stump and the Black Sun. Neither registered the servant who came to place the sacks at Kestrel's feet. They didn't notice the sun wheel across the sky and dip below the horizon, either.

But that didn't matter, because where they were the sun held no power.

When Kestrel bent low to fetch his belongings, Stump snapped out of a daze.

"You're leaving?" he said.

The Solarmancer wrapped the drawstrings around his wrists and straightened again slowly, as if it pained him to do so. "I must. I can't be here any longer."

"What will you do now?"

Kestrel turned his head from the smoke to the sloping hills, and beyond to Aubany and the sea. His eyes, though bright yellow and as striking as a goblin's, glimmered with regret.

"They will want to reassign me elsewhere, to the farms south of the Brightwater, or to the houses of nobles stricken with grief, but I will refuse. I am not fit."

Learn people. Learn how to help them, and teach them how to help themselves, Stump thought. It was a valuable lesson, and he supposed there was no better time to master it.

"You were angry, and you let it overtake you. I've seen it happen among goblins more often than I can remember," he said.

"Angry. Hateful. Vengeful. I was all the things I caution in others. If you hadn't stopped me…" Kestrel lowered his head, and gave his throat respite from the pain, but even his breathing was strained and ragged.

"Controlling your anger and directing it at something important to you. Isn't that the tenet?" said Stump. When Kestrel looked his way, he continued. "What happened to you as a child was terrible. You're allowed to hate it, and to be angry. But there are those who hurt you, and those who didn't. You just need to see who is who."

The shake of Kestrel's head was slow. "I thought I could. But two years I spent here, looking for the creature that stole my life, and all the while its kind dined with me at the table."

"Well, that's my point," Stump pressed, stepping closer. "You lived with them for two years. Maven and Merra. Lyda. All of them vampires. They've taken care of you, and you've helped them. Even Tydas said so. You already know how to see those who love you from those who don't. You've been doing it the entire time."

Stump dared another step, and remembered Wasptongue's advice when he had doubted the bloodlust. "You don't have to lose your anger. It's part of you. Embrace it. Use it how I did to stop you from hurting Lyda. Get your revenge if you need it, but use it to protect, too. Use it for what's important to you."

The words were as much for himself as they were for Kestrel, knowing he would be meeting Thrung and Yeza again soon. But Stump needed no convincing. It was Kestrel who did. And over the low growl of hilly wind came a gentle arcane hum, emanating from the Black Sun.

Tenet of Lumensa Fulfilled - Virtue +1 (6/10)

Knowing the tenets of Lumensa, Kestrel would have been aware of the virtue passing between them. But he said nothing of it, and didn't appear outwardly moved despite the realization. Instead he extended his hand.

Stump reached for it, expecting a clasp, but found the cool touch of iron in the Solarmancer's palm.

"What's this?" he said, and angled the item in the light.

An orange glow lit the carefully carved towers on its face. Three of them speared out of the waves like crooked fingers. They were crowned by the sun and moon, and etched into each one was the aspect of a dead god.

THE AMBER BASTION

"In light we knew her, in twilight we remember"

Diamond

Amber Hall, Morningstar, Wintermoon

- Kestrel of Brinetown, 23rd lvl Solarmancer -

Stump gawked at the small insignia. He imagined those towers—Amber Hall, Morningstar, and Wintermoon, and wondered what they must be like. The kinds of tomes they must've held. The knowledge they guarded. Endless books, each of them bursting with the lives of those who shared their stories. He would visit them someday, he knew, and he would take Yeza with him.

It was almost disappointing when Kestrel took the badge and fixed it to his robes again. "I'll return to the Bastion," he said, then added after a pause, "With my recommendation. You've earned as much."

Like the lord of the manor he was not one for parting words. He threw the sacks over his shoulders and turned before Stump could thank him, and started for the horizon, his dark scales shimmering like obsidian in the light.

"Wait," Stump called, catching the Solarmancer halfway down the hill. "We haven't finished my training, have we?"

Kestrel was still for a long time. Wind tugged his robes. After a weary glance at the blurry city in the distance, he turned and let his belongings thud by his feet. He raised his hand, and a lumen flickered to life.

"You reached into the weave to steal my lumen," he said, authority returning to his wheezing voice. "But can you do that below your maximum?"

Stump's ears perked with excitement. He summoned a light of his own. "I don't know. Can I?"

Something resembling a smile unearthed in Kestrel's frown.

"Let's find out."